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THE MYSTERY 


OF 


Louise Pollard 


BY 


BROOKE MADISON. 

f * \ 



Copyright, 1893 
by 

Weidon Webster, 

(L \ V 





44 My God, it is true! ” gasped Severgn 







The Mystery of Louise Pollard, 

chapter i. 

In which appears Rose Cimarron’s interest in the Mystery. 

* * Y” OU have promised to relate the entire story 

* have you not? ” asked Rose. 

“Yes, Rose, upon your repeated solicitation, I 
have,” responded I. 

“The Mystery of Louise Pollard is perhaps worthy 
of revelation, not more because of the profound enigma 
which at first seemed to enshroud her young life, and 
the appalling calamity which was hers, than the clear- 
ness with which her life shows, that the fate of each 
individual may unconsciously, yet vividly, blend upon 
the many colored, many shaded canvass of a passing 
era.” 

We were seated upon an old rustic bench in Wash- 
ington square beneath the shadows of the old college. 
It was in the twilight of evening. Not far from us 
leaped a fountain, more noticeable by the ceaseless 
clatter of its water than by the sight of its spray, 
which, however, glimmered by times and then was 
lost in the night. 

“Ah, yes,” confided Rose to me — struggling again 
to release from my mind the fancies which she had 
begun to enjoy — “and her story teaches more. It 
shows the sequence, that in the life of one is certain 
to spread indefinitely through time and space ; touch- 
ing as with the wand of sorcery the lives of many. ” 

I admired Rose for her intellect. I feared her be- 
cause of her vastly superior wealth, than my own. 


4 The Mystery of Louise Pollard 

Wealth has a mysterious power over the imagina- 
tions of the less fortunate. All imaginable possibili- 
ties are within its grasp. Every conceivable accom- 
plishment that refines the being lies within the magic 
touch of its finger tips. 

Did I love Rose? She was beautiful — I admired 
her intellect — and yet did I appreciate her as intellectual 
and physical beauty can be appreciated? 

No, I did not. 

I looked into her face. I calmly traced each linea- 
ment. 

Again she began on the same theme, the Mys- 
tery of Louise Pollard. “ I love the scholarly Maurice 
Severgn of whom you so interestingly spake last 
week.” “ I have not told you all of him,” answered I. 
“I knew you had not,” responded she, “the deepest 
interest attaches to him. His beautiful scholarly 
mind has led my day dreams — vainly have I looked 
into fiction and history for his likeness.” 

Maurice Severgn was a student — no, rather an 
intellectual voluptuary; for his age a veritable pro- 
digy of learning. 

What did Rose mean? I, also, was a student — no, 
rather a dreamer I will say, for unaccountably to me 
I had then suddenly detached myself from the raptur- 
ous pages of science and philosophy, for which, up to 
that hour in my life, I had possessed — no, not a 
thirst, but an irresistible passion. I was now dream- 
ing, floating — where, I knew not, nor cared ; I only 
knew that I was then happy. 

In the past, nature had filled me with wonder and 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 5 

# 

speculation by her rig-id, cold reality of truth. Nature 
was now more than that to me ; she was beautiful, as 
well as wonderful. Marvelous transformation ! and 
yet from whence came it? 

I looked into Rose’s eyes. I was certain of her 
beauty; yet I experienced no sentiment, no feeling-. 
Strang-e to me, I had observed a slight tremor on her 
lips when she referred to Maurice Severgn; but to me 
at that time this slight emotional languag-e was quite 
meaning-less. 

It did disturb my mind. What, to her, could be 
this man ? No, not man — this mental image — 
for the Maurice Severg-n of whom I had spoken 
— well he had lived and loved and suffered long- 
years before — a mere historic substance, intangible. I 
acquired more interest in Rose at that very moment. 
Why, I know not, and yet why did she love Maurice 
Severg-n? I would not have it so, yet why should I 
not? 

“You love this Maurice Severgn?” inquired I. 
“Yes,” answered Rose, looking dreamingly away into 
the shadows of the park where the silent trees were 
faintly outlined. ‘ ‘ Then you should be made acquaint- 
ed with Rosetta,”— inquired I. 

“Rosetta!” exclaimed Rose, leaning quickly for- 
ward to read my meaning, but then suddenly recol- 
lecting herself, retreated till only the outline of her 
face was visible. 

It was September; a dusk and twilight night of 
this beautiful month. About me seemed to arise vis- 
ions of the past, all associated and more or less related 


6 . The Mysteryof Louise Pollard. 

to the story of Louise Pollard, to which I now gave 
my mind in complete abandon — save for my transi- 
tory reflections involuntarily arising there on the 
impressive intellect of Rose Cimarron. 

I had enjoyed her association since early in the 
Spring. 

It was not her magnificent home that had enchanted 
me — this rather awed me into silence — caused me bit- 
terness to reflect that I was poor. At times I imagined 
that Rose was conscious of my pain, but I am now 
certain that this was not in the remotest sense true. 

As I have said, we were in Washington Square. 
This was the hour, the place, the very shadows and 
stars under which I had agreed should be begun the 
story of Louise Pollard. 

After listening for some time to the splashing 
fountain and casting my eyes around to make certain 
that we were entirely alone, I began. 

“Rose, do you recollect that these grounds were 
once used as a potter’s field? ” 

“I do!” answered she slightly in astonishment, 
for all that I had previously related to her of the 
Mystery of Louise Pollard had been so far entirely free 
from such association. 

Her astonishment and curiosity was my opportu- 
nity. I immediately launched forth into my story 
reckless of plan or system. The interest of my listener 
was complete — for that instant oblivious of all else. 

I began. 


CHAPTER II. 


EXHUMED. 

Being- the beginning- of the narrative of the Mystery of Eouise 

Pollard as it was gathered by Rose Cimarron. 

*<OEVERAE years had elapsed since the last inter- 
^ ment in Washington Square, and a heavy growth 
of weeds and tangled briers now hid the many forgotten 
graves which even when the park was in active use pos- 
sessed but mounds and pits to mark the last home of 
their sad tenants. 

“The Board of Public Health had condemned 
the ground, and a noble project was then in the hands 
of the architects — namely, the erection of the college. 

“When the work of excavation and clearing had 
progressed a few days, people stood in wonderment 
before the vast number of human skeletons being 
exhumed from the old park, and throngs gathered 
there daily and stood with thoughtful faces; discant- 
ing wisely or with levity upon the fleshless femora and 
sutured skulls; the whitened vertebra, now plastered 
together with clay, and the grim grin of the lipless 
faces profusely lying about upon the fresh earth. 

“The workmen were noted by times to stop while 
closely inspecting the earth, tossing between their 
crusty fingers the fragments of small bone of a hand; 
or digging with their fingers into the mud that snugly 
entombed a wrist or phalanges. 

“ They were hunting for possible jewels. 

“ How vain that search; this was the depository of 
the remains of paupers, criminals and the nameless. 
Who would go to them, even in life, for gems and 
gold? 7 


8 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

“ But one day a workman found a plain gold ring’. 
This ring contained an inscription. The particulars 
were carefully published in the daily press as was the 
custom when articles of value were exhumed from the 
park. 

‘ ‘ I will not at this point dwell upon the history of 
this small bit of jewelry, Rose, nor upon the possible 
associations awakened in the mind of an old man who 
read the notices and was thus helped to the possession 
of this ring. 

“Years afterwards the ring fell into the hands of 
one who at the time of its discovery formed the sole 
contemplation of the old man. 

“ The excavation went steadily on; a foundation was 
laid, these huge walls arose from the gloomy spot 
where once were scattered the lonely graves of the 
promiscuous dead — the pauper, the criminal, the out- 
cast and the forsaken; and to-day from these spacious 
doors pour by times the chattering students, uncon- 
scious of the gloom that in the hour of deep night 
settles about these grounds, or of the whispering 
shades that may lurk in secret places and peep from the 
dark foliage.” 

Thus I began to relate to Rose coherently, that 
which in the past she had drawn from me in allusion, 
and but desultorily. As I proceeded, more and more 
intense grew her interest. In the quiet walks of the 
parks of the great city, seated under the shade of the 
trees, or in the library of her own magnificent home, 
Rose called from me the story, which, to her, had become 
so fascinating. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


0 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard, with whatever it 
may possibly contain of philosophy, history, beauty, 
truth, love, sadness, joy, and the — to me — ever to be 
remembered manner in which the story itself finally 
reached the public can be learned from the following 
pages. 

I shall not stop just now to relate the incidences of 
our many meetings during the beautiful autumn — all 
of which culminated so unexpectedly — thanks to the 
genius, the soul of Rose Cimarron. 

Were I at this place to set down but half of what I 
there experienced under the enchantment of this young 
being — to tell you of the sweet music which at times 
inspired me in my tasks of life; and then of the bitter 
dejection and utter melancholy suffered by me through 
many a bitter hour when I used to count my small 
money slipping daily from my grasp and growing small- 
er — oh, bitterness of poverty, why have you and hope and 
despair ever been united in a single soul! — Were I to 
relate to you this and my awful sadness when I com- 
pared my condition with the magnificent reality of her 
home, and that of thousands of others; and lastly, and 
more wonderful to me, were I to reveal the magic ease 
with which Rose Cimarron could erase from my mind 
the bitterness that fate had there distilled, you would 
not wonder at the following narration, the Mystery of 
Louise Pollard. 


CHAPTER HI. 

ENTERING A CITY. 

T T was in the afternoon of a hot August day in the 
* year 1830. 

A young woman, apparently weary from long walk- 
ing, was seen slowly passing down a street of the village 
of Kingsbridge. In her arms she carried an infant. 
She was now approaching the old wooden bridge over 
which the Boston Post Road led through the northern 
portion of the island to the city of New York. 

The hot August sun was blazing in the western 
sky, sinking steadily toward the horizon. In his 
beams weltered the hot walls and roofs. Windows 
twinkled with a sizzling glare. People were panting 
and perspiring in every available shade — thousands 
sedulously hunting cool retreats from the merciless 
beams — cool drinks and fans being in supreme demand. 

It was beneath this glaring sun that our weary pedes- 
trian was slowly making her way toward the city, fol- 
lowing the dusty trail of the old Boston Post Road. 

In the year 1830 the northern limits of the Metro- 
polis di 1 not stretch beyond Bleecker street — the north- 
ern portion of the island being almost wholly unin- 
habited, except by rural homes. 

Far away from the northern boundary of the city 
stretched the blistering sands of the several roads, 
which from earliest day ran angling from the city. 


10 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 11 

spreading- out fan-shaped as they entered the upper 
part of the island, finally converging- into a main 
artery and crossing- the Harlem river at the villag-e 
above named. All of what is now inclosed within 
Central Park and much of the territory on both its 
sides was in that day as wild, broken and barren as in 
the days of its original possessors — the Manhattans. 
Not the slightest vestig-e of what is now both beauti- 
ful and wonderful there, was then present. Overlook- 
ing- the surrounding- waste, in the northern portion of 
the island arose its higiiest eminence, over whose sun- 
scorched crown lay the Boston Post Road. This old 
thoroug-hfare — known even to the earliest Dutch — 
wound about in a sinuous manner between hills and 
throug-h the small intervening- valleys, througii shrubs 
and rocks and barren heath as it proceeded north- 
ward from the city till it crossed White Plains, 
a spot made famous by Washington; thence piercing 
Magowan’s Gap, a rocky causeway of the desolate 
heath, it finally found itself at the mouth of the old 
wooden bridge which spanned Harlem river. 

Our traveler cdhie across this old bridge and out 
into the sterile, rocky plain, which stretched out with 
barren ridges and small valleys far away to the base 
of an eminence to which we have alluded and which 
stood high above the surrounding country. From its top 
could be seen the rivers and the bay. Plain it was by her 
slow, plodding gait and the manner in which the 
woman held in her arms her infant, that she was 
weary and footsore. She was clad in a close-fitting, 
well made dress; but this was now heavily covered 


12 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

with dust. Her steps were slow, monotonous and 
seemed made with exertion and pain. As she would 
sometimes cross the road her shoes sank deep into the 
hot sand while from the tracks arose small clouds of 
dust a few feet from the earth and then sank back 
again lifelessly. Why it was she had not selected 
some of the valley roads and thus avoided the irksome 
hill, we cannot say, unless, being- a strang-er she had 
kept the main track and thus came by the central 
road of the island. Passing- slowly up the road, in 
dust some places ankle deep, and now diverg-ing- from 
the beaten track into by-paths lined and paved with 
sharp stones, boulders, withered grass and dusty, 
crooked shrubs, tiresomely and slowly she ascended 
the hill. 

In that day there was little or no veg-etation in this 
part of the island; all was a vast desolation. For the 
space of a half mile or more on either side of our 
traveler all was a ragged waste, where lay many a 
glacial boulder and rocky grassless patch, relieved 
only by thistly weeds, clinging- here and there to 
slig-htly fertile spots, and clumps of miserable shrubs 
with a few stunted trees interspersed. At that hour 
this desolate landscape was baking in a sun so hot, 
each leaf was parching with a quenchless thirst, and 
the beggared roots thrust their fingers into the cracked 
earth in vain for moisture. 

Finally, after many weary steps, our traveler 
reached the top of the eminence to which we have 
referred. 

From where she stood the landscape spread out 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


13 


before her like a panorama. Carelessly she dropped a 
pack she had been carrying - , while for a moment she 
stood looking - to the South. Scarcely was there a 
cloud to fleck the sky. The many steeples of the dis- 
tant city and the broken outline of walls and roofs stood 
defined in the late afternoon sun. Thin g-entle col- 
umns of smoke silently arose into the calm atmosphere 
from many points quietly proclaiming - the whereabouts 
of factories and — so our traveler thought — the un- 
broken reign of peace. Shading her eyes with her 
hand, she was certain within the bay she saw the 
masts and sails of vessels. At her left lay the Harlem, 
at her right the Hudson, in whose waters could dimly 
be seen vessels of different sorts slowly plying their 
way from point to point. By times the distant note 
of a steam whistle would be heard, then all would sink 
back into its original calm. 

For a time, fixed by the scene before her, she 
stood motionless, but suddenly she sank upon her knees 
and murmured, “ God be praised. Rescue and protect 
us, Oh Lord ! ” afterwards slowly rising to her feet and 
continuing her gaze to the south. 

After a time she kissed her child, took up a pack 
from the ground, and began the descent of the hill, 
but stopping before she had gone far, to contemplate 
the scene to the north and left of her — the barren 
flats, the parched ravines, the rocky knolls and stunted 
heath, over which, far away to the north, she traced 
the dim, sandy outlines of the many converging 
roads. 

All was a dull, monotonous calm of sands, stunted 


14 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


vegetation and scorching sun beams, a desert from 
which animation had fled. 

In all this landscape there was but one thing besides 
the presence of this stranger, which broke the monot- 
ony of desolation. Far away to the northeast she 
observed a thin strata of dust ascending from a 
road which ran not far from the shores of Harlem 
river. It proceeded from a slowly moving vehicle, 
which by the indication of the rising dust was appar- 
ently headed for the city. This seemed the only ani- 
mation about. Wiping the perspiration away which 
trickled in small streams from her temples, she was in 
the act of resuming her journey when suddenly was 
heard a distant rumbling, like the trundling of a 
vehicle swiftly approaching. The effect upon her was 
the most astonishing. Swiftly turning about she 
decerned the approach of a stage speeding at a rapid 
gait over the stony crown of an adjoining hill. She 
grasped her child hysterically, and clinging to her 
bundle fled with precipitation down the long side hill. 
Her flight was deflected from the main road in the 
direction of a heavy wood which lay some distance to 
the southeast, covering the edge of the Harlem for 
several miles with a dense forest, some parts of which 
yet remain, forming to-day much of the sheltering 
umbrage of the eastern part of Central Park. 

As she sped over the earth, she enjoined her child 
to silence, muttering that strange word of warning — 
“sh-sh-sh,” cried she, “sh, my child,” while by times 
casting quick and frantic glances in the direction of 
the distant stage. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. IS 

In the glare of her eyes at this moment there was 
terror. 

In the flight of those feet there was desperation. 

By the time the stage had reached the eminence 
from which the retreat began the woman with her 
child clasped wildly to her bosom had gained the 
wood, into which she darted and was instantly lost to 
sight. The stage came whirling by and made its 
onward journey toward the city. 

An hour previous, the woman, while in the village 
of Kingsbridge, had seen this stage resting at an inn. 
By the merest chance her eyes had fallen upon one of 
the inmates — for whom, it will be revealed, she main- 
tained the most unspeakable dread. The delusion of 
safety, which had calmed her during a long journey 
suddenly vanished. By a hasty departure and sly 
detour she flattered herself that she had escapd them. 
When she had preceived the thin cloud of dust ascend- 
ing from the vehicle far to the northeast she was cer- 
tain that it was produced by the stage. But the object 
she had seen was not the stage, but another vehicle 
whose passenger we may soon meet ; and whose future 
deeds and life challenge our hasty acquaintance. 

Silently the dust continued to ascend as this vehicle 
neared the outskirts of a strip of wood, until it at last 
vanished behind the foliage of the trees. It was 
pursuing that ancient and well worn track, known 
from earliest of the new Amsterdam people as the 
Bellevue Road, a prolongation of Bowery Lane. 

As in the future we are to meet this traveler in 
closer and more material relations let us draw near to 
him. 


16 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


The vehicle in which he was riding 1 was a small 
spring wagon of the old and antiquated style, which 
though the primest pattern of that day would provoke 
but smiles in our own.. Once painted and adorned, it 
now was dinged and worn. At one place appeared the 
remains of an inscription, G B. J . All else had 
vanished. 

The driver was seated beneath the housing of the 
top. By the abundance of gray hairs, mingled with the 
remaining dark, and the marks about his eyes and 
stubbled face, he was a man of sixty. He had removed 
his hat and thin coat, perhaps to catch the light even- 
ing breeze then setting in from the sea. The collar 
of his shirt was turned back, displaying a broad, hairy 
chest. In his strong left hand he manipulated the 
lines, while in his right he wielded a fresh, leafy wil- 
low branch, which by times he used as a gentle goad 
to the bay animal he was driving, and again as a 
besom to drive away the pesty flies, which in the hot 
sun viciously attacked its dripping flanks. Now in 
a>slow trot, and again slackening to a walk, he was 
passing along that road between the beautiful trees 
which at that period cast their shade athwart the 
spacious track. 

By times he indulged in a low conversation with 
himself, as is the habit when the mind is deeply agi- 
tated by an engrossing revery. 

“Yes,” muttered he, “this must be. I cannot 
longer avoid it. Besides I am getting old. Though 
ungrateful by nature my creditor can not forget my 
past promptitude. This sale shall be for his benefit. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


17 


It will reduce the note. Ah yes, my James, come 
along- now, my good James!” Then softly stroking 
the horse with the willow branch he exclaimed with 
some feeling: “The Provost! I have stood under its 
shadow these ten years. Ah, well!” and after a long 
silence he ended — “Burdenless age, how sincerely a 
blessing! — and the child, my little Margaret!” 

Suddenly raising his head and looking down the 
road, his eyes slightly lighting up, he exclaimed; 
“This is strange! Did I not meet her some miles on 
this side of Albany? It is the identical garb. Yes, 
she carries a child.” 

He referred to a pedestrian some distance ahead 
who had just come out of the neighboring forest 

It was the woman and her child. She had crossed 
the entire woodland and was now timidly emerging 
into the first great road that crossed her path. Spying 
the vehicle approaching she crept behind an oak and 
cautiously glanced through the leaves of the adjoin- 
ing copses. 

What was the cause of such precaution? Whence 
came this strangely acting woman? If the remark 
of the old man in the wagon was correct, she had 
been traveling many miles on foot. The day neared 
the end. It was fast darkening within the forest. 
The sun, what little of him yet remained above the 
horizon, was now completely hid by the woods in 
which the deep shades proclaimed the approaching 
night. The woman’s face betrayed excitement and 
deep anxiety. She looked by times into the deep, 
sheltering shades of the forest and seemed debating 
renewed flight, 


18 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


“I have not been seen,” then argued she to herself. 
“Perhaps he is but a peddler or a careless, unthinking 
traveler. I will remain. He will soon pass.” The 
approaching clatter of the wagon grew nearer. “Sh— 
sh — my child,” murmured she, caressing her infant 
which had been fretful for some time. The arm which 
held the child was trembling. About her mouth a 
visible paleness was creeping. She sought to steal a 
glance through the copses, but did not observe that 
her body was partially disclosed, owing to the spring- 
ing aside of the foliage against which she placed her 
hand. The wagon suddenly halted. A voice from 
the stranger cried, “Madam!” Her heart sank at the 
sound. Her lips grew paler. She was about to take 
a step toward the forest but for a moment she hesi- 
tated. 

There was no menace in that voice. Indeed did 
not its softness disarm fear? She hesitated. “Mad- 
am,” exclaimed the voice again. She felt an irresisti- 
ble desire to reply, for there was a warranty in the 
tone of this stranger. 

“Well sir,” tremblingly she replied. The tone of 
the old man’s voice was so gentle and his face so 
earnest that irresistibly the woman felt herself drawn 
toward him. And she now stood but a few steps 
away. 

“Pardon me, Madam,” began the old man in the 
wagon,” who now was looking her squarely in the 
face. “I thought to offer you a seat in my wagon 
the balance of your journey. This would partially 
compensate you for my negligence on Monday last,” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 19 

“I don’t understand you,” replied the woman, 
becoming- terrified by what seemed to be the token of 
previous recognition, for above all desire on earth she 
-wished to enter the city unobserved. 

“Pardon me Madam, are you not the lady I over- 
took some miles from Albany? I am sure there is no 
mistake. Mistake or not I am happy to make the 
offer, since you carry a heavy load.” 

“I am thankful sir,” replied she, “but I am forced 
to decline; besides I have not far to go now ” — vainly 
striving to dissimulate. 

Leaning over the side of the wagon and looking 
her deeply in the face, he repeated the following in a 
low voice that could not have been heard ten steps 
away: 

“Pardon the interest I show for you — a being 
whom before Monday last I had never met. Pardon 
me, madam, I say, but I may possess such information 
as would prove most valuable to you.” 

The woman, already blanched and pale, was now 
visibly changed, which the old man observing, replied: 

“Ah! yes. I see that in your face which now con- 
firms what I had heard. God be merciful! I in no 
way blame you for prefering the trackless woods to 
the company of him who is an untried stranger. 
Listen! I may relate something surprising. You 
are from Savannah.” The woman shuddered. “You 
arrived in Boston by sea at the dusk of evening 
August first. Thence you immediately set out by 
stage to Concord, thence to Albany, where you arrived 
on the twelfth. Listen!” — and the old man’s voice 


20 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


assumed a frightfully prophetic tone, whispering. “You 
are going — The last words were inaudible — “and 
rightly, too. I cannot ask you to place con^fidence in 
me, yet am I a friend and will render a service if 
required.” The woman’s eyes were illumined with 
fear as she looked this stranger in the face, who as 
though inspired was unraveling as with the tongue of 
a sorcerer, a tale dreadful to her. 

Again her infant renewed its uneasy writhings in 
her arms. She turned half about and made one falter- 
ing step toward the wood, which now stood impen- 
etrably dark on either side, while the deep dusk of 
evening cast a dimness far up and down the road. She 
felt herself walled in by deep shadows. Indeed, was 
she not listening to the sepulchral words of a shadow? 
“Hark!” again began the voice from the dim form 
from within the wagon. ‘ ‘ There is no universal 
voucher for sincerity but the heart. The tongue of a 
stranger may lead you to snares, therefore, I cannot 
prevail upon you to accept shelter within my wagon. 
But you have little or no money. This I know, else 
you would not have walked this long journey, subject- 
ing yourself to the curiosity of strangers, and your 
young child to the extreme heat. Hark! ” and the old 
man became more serious. “You have great reason 
to wear a jealous secrecy and cast a watchful eye 
about you. Do not be oppressed by what I say,” and 
leaning forward he slowly whispered, “your pursuers 
will be in the city by morning.” 

The young woman stood like one stricken dumb — 
her eyes gleaming with fear. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 2i 

After a time the old man softly addressed her. 
“You had best hide yourself within this wag-on and 
when we have arrived within the unfrequented parts 
of the city, if still you mistrust, you shall be at liberty 
to g-o. 

“Ah! you hesitate. I will not prevail. It is just to 
me and wise in you to suspect all. Hark to me! I am 
an old man. I can g-uess very nearly of your troubles 
and I truly pity you. Youarerig-ht — the most studied 
caution is your only hope. 

“Enter the city by the river streets and avoid the 
lig-hts from the windows and lamps. Push forward 
till you come to sudden breaks and turns in the streets. 
It is easy for the strang-er to become lost in New York. 
In the southern portion of the city you will find streets 
running- in all directions like the tang-led meshes of a 
fisherman’s net. There you will soon be lost. This is 
what you most desire. Do not be frig-htened; I know 
your dang-er and have g-iven you the advice. Follow 
it! Once buried in that human sea, whereto I direct 
you, pursuit will be in vain. 

“It is a place where the police themselves fear to 
enter, except by twos and fours. Do not tremble, 
woman. Remember the fiery furnace into which the 
rig-hteous were cast. It is said, the sinless may pass 
through hell unscathed. Hunt you out a room in 
some unfrequented place, where the ascent is made by 
back stairs — some locality where every passer-by must 
carry the passport written in his face — I mean the 
mark of crime or long suffering. Once within the 
proper locality, a home of this kind will be easily 


22 Thy Mysiery of Louise Pollard. 

found. Do not fear ; your present disguise is quite 
sufficient. When you have once located, do as you 
find the people, who to your mind, will perhaps seem 
strange ; whose look may strike you with fear, but 
whose custom, well observed, will close the eyes of 
suspicion against you and lock the doors against your 
discovery. Reflect, woman ; there is a voucher for my 
heart’s sincerity in this counsel, since obedience by 
you will so hide you that I myself could give no clue. 

“But this you cannot do without my aid. Here, 
madam, this is what I mean ; take it, I say — there, 
hide it in the folds of your bosom.” 

She accepted the offering and as she clutched it in 
her hand she found it as she anticipated — a bag of 
money. The coins ground upon each other as she 
involuntarily gripped it, and secreted it as she was 
directed. The voice and the manner of the old man 
had partially disarmed her fears. 

“That’s right,” began the old man again. “If in 
the future you need me, send me a note and I will 
hunt you out. My address you will find stamped on a 
silver tag fastened to the pouch. Take it, young 
woman ; it may save you ; its absence cannot ruin 
me. I have known deep distress and may know more, 
but your affliction, outweighs my combined sorrows. 
Now hasten your journey. Keep in your mind these 
names: ‘ Baxter, Chatham, and Worth ;’ they are the 
names of streets. If you can hunt out one of these, 
follow it for a time while dwelling upon your means 
of escape, and when you first look up the sense of 
fear will cause you to shudder ; you will look vainly 


the Mystery of Louise Pollard. 23 

in all directions. Alas! you will be lost! But hark! 
Though lost to the world you will save yourself and 
child. Now keep the silver tag and come to me when 
in need.” 

Suddenly the old man ceased, and striking the 
horse gently, and making a sharp cluck with his 
tongue, he started away in a trot, while behind him 
in the road, shut in by the wood and the night, stood 
the woman gazing as in a trance at the fast retreating 
wagon which after a moment completely vanished into 
the impenetrable shadows. 

CHAPTER IV. 

NIGHT — THE ARRIVAL. 

A S late as the year 1830 in Bowery Lane, not far 
from Chatham, there stood a relic of architecture 
of true Nickerbocker antiquity. It was a building of 
two and one half stories, and of such peculiar shape 
that the least observant person passing that way would 
involuntarily stop while wrapped in astonishment at 
the grotesque outline which marked it from its more 
modern neighbors. Like poor “Rip,” it had been by 
some mysterious law of preservation protruded upon 
an age in which it stood naked, forgotten and alone. 
The age in which it had flourished had long since 
departed, and though old and the very antithesis of the 
times, it surpassed its neighbors in strength and pres- 
ervation, ' hundreds of which had grown up, decaded, 
and fallen before the very eye and shadow of this old 
Nickerbocker. The gables of this building were 


24 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

carried far above the roof in a zigzag manner, pro- 
nouncing unmistakably the presence of Dutch embell- 
ishment. An architect of the old Amsterdam school 
once said gravely and with peculiar zest that this 
style of gable was adopted by the good, Dutch fathers 
to facilitate the ascension of “Saint Nick, ’’the Patron 
Saint of New Amsterdam, who found it extremely 
difficult to scale the smooth tilings of the roof. The 
masonry of this queer structure was of Holland brick, 
and as if to attest the wisdom and taste of its ancient 
Dutch designer it still in days of decreptitude clung 
to its original colors, but slightly dimed by smoke and 
tempest. In it there was the Nickerbocker architect- 
ural colors, yellow, red, green and blue. “A beauti- 
ful fantasy of Dutch Art,” exclaimed an old Knicker- 
bocker of the seventeenth century as he stood admir- 
ingly before the structure in the prime days of New 
Amsterdam, while as yet those streets had not heard 
the clink of the English sword, and the calm, peace- 
ful oyster-bargemen were drifting about in the waters 
of a little stream where now lies Broad Street, and the 
Dutch merchantmen drew out their semi-sleeping lives, 
oblivious of the awful transformation that a century 
to come was sure to bring. 

The structure to which we allude had five wind- 
ows. There was one in the top devoted to the gable, 
which caused the building at night to present the 
appearance of a one-eyed demon, and two in each 
story below whose irregularity would confirm your 
first impression that Dutch eyes possessed cataracts 
in various stages of development. The lintles were 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard 


25 


uncouth and laid in their places without regard to the 
laws of the plummet or level. At the top of the 
gable swung and frolicked in the capricious winds the 
proverbial Dutch vane, a cock. But alas, his eyes 
were now rusty and dim with age, for to him had been 
allotted more than the ordinary glory of his species — 
he had looked with deference upon more than one 
Dutch Governor; yea, had he not saluted Stuyvesaunt 
himself — he had indicated the course of the winds for 
an entire century. 

Below the second story window, and across the 
entire face of the house could be seen the ledgend, 
“ 1685 .” 

The figures were ingeniously worked into the ma- 
sonry, with the assistance of various colored bricks, in 
comport with the taste of the age to which it belonged. 
Most of the Knickerbocker buildings bore conclusive 
testimony as to the date of their erection, which like 
a million other human foibles kept an unchangeable 
existence even in the absence of purpose or beauty. In 
front of the door suspended above the walk was a 
huge sign upon which was painted “Wiseman’s Inn.” 
At night the sign was dimly illuminated by a large 
oil lamp from the top of a wooden post. 

It was in the dusk of the evening of the same day 
on which we met the woman far to the north of the 
city; yea it was the very hour in which was being 
carried on that strange colloquy in the wood between 
the strange woman and the old man, that a stage 
pulled by two foaming steeds came swiftly up to the 
door of the inn whose odd structure we have just des- 
cribed. 


26 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


“Who-a!” shouted the driver in an alarming- bass, 
which broug-ht a broad-shouldered porter to their 
assistance. 

In a moment two men and a boy descended from 
the interior of the stag-e. The boy was an intensely 
black, negro lad, who to all appearances was about 
fifteen years of ag-e; tall, muscular, and, as was re- 
vealed in after years, was endowed with extraordinary 
streng-th. He was now dressed in a dark, well fitting- 
suit, upon the coat and vesture of which shone an 
array of polished, g-old plated buttons. He was per- 
haps at this moment in his career serving- in the 
capacity of body servant, for he seemed to recognize 
this station in an admirable manner, and without a 
word he took supreme charge of the baggage. 

Orders were now given in a whisper to the stage 
driver, and the passengers then followed the porter into 
the rickety old inn. 

Another moment and the stage pulled swiftly 
away. 

The ramshackled house into which they were enter- 
ing was not too poor to support a register for the con- 
venience of its guests, and the three visitors imme- 
diately inscrolled their names, which appeared as fol- 
lows: 

Finias Green, Savannah, Ga. 

Robert Cunningham, D. D.,do. do. 

Vulcan, slave of the above, do. do. 

The latter name was written by the minister him- 
self, who immediately called the inn-keeper into a 
private corner and began the following in a whisper: 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


27 


“Sir,” I wish to convey some important matter to 
your confidence.” 

“Well,” replied the inn-keeper, looking- intently out 
of his shining- black eyes, his eag-er face turned to the 
giant form addressing him. 

“Has there appeared here, within the last half 
hour a woman with an infant?” 

“No sir,” answered the inn-keeper, who by his 
accent was apparently an Israelite. 

The minister seemed slightly non-plused. He 
drew from his pocket a gold watch and carefully noted 
the time. He then beckoned to his fellow traveler, 
Mr. Green. This latter gentleman was a tall, lithe, 
hungry looking gentleman, with black hair and a 
parchment face. Mr. Green slowly approached. 

After a secret conference, lasting but a few mo- 
ments, Minister Cunningham renewed his conversation 
in a low voice to Soloman Wiseman, the inn-keeper. 

“You will easily recognize her. She is compara- 
tively well dressed, though much travel worn. She is 
making the distance from Albany to this city on foot. 
Her child is an infant — perhaps dead. The excessive 
heat through so long a journey would necessarily be 
dangerous.” Soloman Wiseman flinched as he looked 
upon that countenance of stone. Minister Cunning- 
ham continued: “You will recognize her. She has 
dark hair, an excellent bodily figure, and is not yet 
thirty years of age, tall, well proportioned. You 
will”— here Minister Cunningham became more intense, 
and his voice became inaudible to all but the one to 
whom he was addressing himself. 


28 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


After the conversation had ended, and every detail 
of arrangement had apparently been settled, the 
guests retired to a side room where the dust was 
brushed from their clothing, their faces cooled and 
refreshed with water and towels, and their boots care- 
fully blacked. Then in due course of time Minister 
Cunningham and his fellow traveler, Mr. Green, 
adjourned to the dining room where in due time a 
dinner appeared, steaming with unctuous flavor and 
adorned with wine. 

During this time, Vulcan, the negro lad, amused 
himself with the porter who probed him with endless 
questions. 

The dinner was a truly excellent one and quite put 
to shame the unpretentiousness of the room and house 
in which it was served. The stony countenance of the 
divine, as he looked upon the miniature clouds of steam, 
the smoking biscuits at the right of the honey, the 
sparkling ware which had seen but little previous use, 
md the wine laughing from out the bottles, melted 
into meekness, as he poured forth his unpremeditated 
thanks. 

After this petition by Minister Cunningham, which 
served to whet the already intense appetite of Mr. 
Green, who was basking in gustatory dreams, uncon- 
scious of the solemn incense now pouring forth from 
the lips of his holiness; the man of God ended by a 
gentle hint in the ear of the Most High that a slight 
recognition of the business now on hand would receive 
the approbation of his son and servant. 

Quietly the process of appeasing their hunger went 



She was directing- her steps where the night had fixed its most solemn 
and pathless bewilderments. 






























I* 

t 


I 

1 

y 

i 

t 







r 




I 













*. 
















< 

V \ ‘ 







The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


29 


on — by times interrupted by short easy going remarks, 
then lapsing into a silent thoughtfulness and an occa- 
sional long breath, sometimes reviewing an incident 
of the journey, sometimes reflecting upon the probable 
whereabouts of the object of their pursuit, then again 
falling into pleased dreams and happy contentedness, 
while the wine now lit up their eyes or danced upon 
their cheeks. 

While thus our travelers were enjoying their meal 
and resting their tired bodies, there was an episode 
being performed in front of the inn to which we must 
now turn. 

Darkness had now come down over the city, and all 
things were arrayed in the customary habiliment of 
the night. Street lamps were twinkling on the corners 
and that dim light, produced by the luminated wind- 
ows, was afloat in the streets. Up the dark alleys lay 
the customary gloom of these quarters, and from their 
dens and hovels had come forth a throng of nocturnal 
human creatures, darting here and there through the 
shadows. 

Beneath the dim light of the oil lamp in front of 
the inn stood a young woman attentively deciphering 
the sign, tracing with much eagerness all marks that 
peculiarly set forth the odd building and made it dis- 
tinct from its neighbors. 

“Yes,” said she to herself, “this is right, 1685.” 
She was repeating the date upon the wall. 

This woman carried an infant in her arms. Being 
small and of very tender age, it was completely hid in 
wraps. Briefly, she was the same whom at dusk we 


30 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

left in Bellevue Road, far to the north of the city. The 
extreme heat throughout the long journey from early 
morn, had quite exhausted her. Her cheeks were pale and 
dark rings had begun to appear under her eyes. Not- 
withstanding this, she had a comely form and her 
face needed but a vital tinge to make her beautiful. 
Her chief pursuer, Minister Cunningham, was at 
that moment seriously contemplating these special 
attributes. His well filled stomach and rested limbs 
had lulled his frail conscience and awakened that spirit 
which we shall more fully reveal in the future. The 
rather remarkable coincidence of their present meeting 
at this inn will not here be discussed. 

As the woman stood in the pale light of the 
lamp her countenance portrayed the mental and 
physical suffering, the deep anxiety she was in. 
There was pain about her temples, and the sad brow 
revealed the overcast mind. She had come many 
miles since morning. The nails of her shoes were 
buried in the flesh of her feet. Too exhausted to 
feel the pangs of hunger, she had tasted food but once 
during the entire day. She now stood trembling with 
weakness. Once after leaving the strange old man, 
the remembrance of whom was a sort of inexplicable 
dream to her, her quivering knees had given wa} r and 
she had fallen prone upon the earth. It had been a 
long journey, besides she had twice been driven to pre- 
cipitate flight. By times she felt a dizzy sensation about 
her eyes, blinding her brain, causing her to reel as 
one upon the edge of a precipice. Taking up her pack 
she slowly entered the inn. The inn-keeper having 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


31 


immediately recognized her, beckoned the porter to 
assist her, adding, with a knowing side glance, “ I 
will return,” then hurridly leaving in the direction of 
the dining room. 

The porter hesitated ; his eyes following the 
retreating form of the inn-keeper. 

Approaching the young woman who had seated 
herself on a chair near the table, he whispered, at the 
same time pointing to a certain place on the register 
— “Madam, if lam not mistaken, we have guests here 
waiting for a woman of your description. Shall I call 
them? ” 

She glanced at the page, riveting her eyes where 
directed, and instantly turned very pale. A shadow 
crossed a threshold not far away — instantly arising 
with her infant grasped tightly in her arms, her lips 
quivered but she did not speak. She heard footsteps 
in the adjoining room. “ Stop that woman ! ” cried a 
voice. Instantly the negro started, but the remarkable 
manner in which he had succeeded in entangling his 
feet in the chairs of which he had improvised a couch 
always remained a mystery. The porter was not 
acquainted with the secret to the strange episode ; he 
therefore conceived no wrong in preserving an abso- 
lute neutrality. 

Leaving her pack and grasping her child tightly in 
her arms the woman fled precipitately into the street. 
She looked not about to observe her pursuers, nor scarce- 
ly in advance could it be said to select her way. With 
that surety with which terror inspires the feet, aim- 
lessly she sped through the dark streets. It was the 


32 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


fleetness of the terrorized. She sped on as the wind. 
Albeit a moment before her limbs were sinking- with 
the effects of the long- journey, they were now 
animated by a mad fear which sweeps away physical 
depletion and transforms the nerves to steel. In all 
respects a stranger to the dark streets, she sought only 
to plunge herself into those glooms that hung in 
shadows, where night and poverty had fashioned their 
abodes. By times flashed over her mind the remarks 
of the old man. 

‘ ‘Alas ! ” cried she through her anguish as she 
frantically retreated into the darkness, “that I could 
resolve myself into these shadows.” 

Despair finds its antidote in gloom. She threw 
herself upon the mercy of chance. She was directing 
her steps where the night had fixed its most solemn 
and pathless bewilderments. By times was heard the 
lowly weeping voice of the infant which she madly 
clasped to her breast. It was an awful moment ! and 
as she swiftly passed, people stood in wonder at her 
ghastly face and glaring eyes. Happily the infant 
being young it was very light, but it was a serious 
incumbrance as the fugitive was in constant dread 
lest she would collide with some unseen obstacle and 
instantly crush it. She was escaping. Where — she 
did not know. She only knew that peril with out- 
thrust hand was clutching at her feet and menacing 
with its awful mace about her head. Strangeness of 
place, the dimly lighted streets, the miserable hovels, 
faces of wretchedness and that indescribable gallery 
which abides in the home of squalor, she noted not, 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


33 


but rushed by impetuously. At one point she passed 
through a lot of vagrants and idlers. They hotly took 
up the pursuit, screaming in her ears, but mistaking 
her for a wretch escaping the police, with whom they 
bore sympathy, slightly vacillating they dropped 
behind, forming for a time an obstruction through 
which the on-coming pursuers found it impossible to 
rapidly pass. As is the wont of the sex when fright- 
ened, at intervals she was heard to scream, and tears 
—those of terror — started from her eyes, and low 
tremulous exclamations— those of desperation — were 
emitted from her pitiful lips. 

When under the spell of such passion, all that is 
human vanishes; only the animal-side of human nature 
remains. Such had become this fugitive. Woe to him 
who would bring her to bay. A ruffian crossed her 
path and pressed her to the wall. With a scream and 
a thrust of her hand, a cat-like stroke, she left him 
bleeding and dazed. On she fled ; her bonnet swung 
from her neck by its strings, and her dark hair grad- 
ually loosening as she fled through the shadows, 
floated upon the wind. 

Now she was seen in the glare of the lamps and 
again she was totally hid from view. The flight had 
become a rout and as is the common result when 
excitement stirs up the thronging street, direction was 
soon an enigma to even the fleetest person. Each was 
suspecting the other, the fugitive. Criminals know 
this, and stop in a comfortable spot to enjoy the silly 
bluster they have created. But in the flight of this 
woman there was naught but terror, and terror knows 


34 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

no guile. The woman fled on and on, wildly cling- 
ing to her child. 

Suddenly, and scarcely knowing what she had 
done, she turned into an alley; momentarily stopped, 
cast her wild eyes back over the street, then hurridly 
took up her retreat. 

Alas! the alley was so intensely dark that she had 
gone but a short distance when she tripped upon unex- 
pected debris and fell to the earth with violence. Ever 
mindful of her child, she thrust forth the arm that 
held it. Instantly the infant began hysterically cry- 
ing. 

But feeling herself alone, and for the first time 
missing the on-coming throng, she hastily arose and 
renewed her flight, at the same time muffling the 
infant’s cries and soothing it as she held its face to 
her lips. 

As she proceeded, sometimes stopping to listen, the 
noise steadily decreased, till its mutterings were but 
faintly audible from where she stood. Slacking her 
speed to a hurried walk, broken alternately by sud- 
den impulsive flights, she at ‘last came to an angle of 
the alley-way down which moonlight was faintly break- 
ing through the moving clouds over head. 

Panting with exhaustion, her flesh quivering in 
places with those tremors of the last efforts of physical 
energy, she leaned against the wall and sank slowly 
to the earth. The last atom of strength seemed 
oozing from her body. She could go no farther. 
Soothing the complaining child with faint voice and 
quivering hand she buried her head in the folds of its 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


35 


wraps and her long- dark hair fell disheveled about her 
shoulders. For some moments she sat there soothing 
the child and reg-ainmg* her strength. At intervals 
low, murmuring moans proceeded from her. 

Had she finally escaped them? All about her now 
was calm, save the grating noise of an oscillating wire 
suspended from the wall which her body had accidently 
set in motion. 

At some distance away, however, could have been 
heard a dull, monotonous hum arising in the street 
where people were busily passing and repassing. 
Clasping her infant close she hid herself in the deep 
shadow of the wall at whose base she was crouching. 

The various structures about her presented a scene 
of no inviting aspect. The tall buildings to her left 
communicating one with another by rear balconies 
were dimly visible in the moon’s rays. Upon a net- 
work of banisters and feeble staircasings, where the 
light fell upon them, were revealed a quantity of hang- 
ing rags and garments, the presence of which pro- 
claimed the existence of those people who live in the 
narrow cells and high back garrets of upstair ten- 
ements ; in those localities where the aiy of the city is 
fetid with its most maloderous fumes. They are the 
human fungi whose species are as diversified as they 
are multitudinous. Famine, sickness and they are 
lifelong enemies, yet do they ever abide under the 
same roof. They are the humanity which is below 
humanity ; and yet, are of it. 

The angle of the alley, before which the young 
mother had stopped, was darkened at its farther end 


36 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


by the shadow of an overhanging arch which spanned 
the way and connected the buildings on either side. 

After some time she raised her head. She saw 
nothing. Had she outwitted them? The child sud- 
denly again grew fretful and cried. The mother 
silenced it by a single effort. There is an instinct in 
the young of the human-kind which admonishes them 
of the presence of danger. A word, a look, and they 
are all attention. The child was suddenly hushed. 
Unconscious motherly affection caused the woman to 
grasp this opportunity to nourish her child, and she 
gave it her breast. 

Presently from under the arch which stood some 
rods away there was heard voices, murmuring in low 
tones. Then footsteps approached. “Hark!” ex- 
claimed a voice in a just audible tone, “ did you hear 
nothing? I am sure I heard the cry of an infant ! ” 
The depths of the darkness in that direction were in- 
visible. Trembling with renewed apprehension at the 
unexpected voice the woman steathily arose and 
peered on all sides, but kept herself in the shadow of 
the wall. The footsteps grew plainer as the unseen 
strangers approached. 

Must she fly? By the tone of the voices proceeding 
from under the arch she felt they certainly must be 
oblivious of her flight in the street. And yet — might 
they not be a parcel of her pursuers! Crouching in a 
niche of the wall she obscured herself as best she could 
and waited. 

Presently two forms, a man and a woman, appeared. 
Before reaching her they chanced to cross the way and 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 37 

stood for a moment whispering-. The lig-ht fell 
athwart their persons and revealed the color and man- 
ner of their apparel. What could be more out of place, 
thought the fugitive, who viewed from her retreat 
an array of plumes and ribbons on the woman, and 
the gentlemanly attire of the male escort? Presently 
these two passed by, and shortly disappeared. 

But the time for change had finally approached — 
there was a renewed stir in the streets! “ This way, this 
way!” exclaimed a voice from that direction — “she was 
last seen entering this alley.” The clatter of footsteps 
was suddenly intensified. The street had finally 
learned the truth! They had again picked up the 
trail. They were but a few rods away and fast 
gathering. She must instantly take flight ; but 
where! — her pursuers were approaching from both 
ends of the main alley. 

These extremes distracted her till her heart beat 
violently and she heard its pulsings in her bosom 
while the madness of renewed terror swept hurridly all 
other thoughts away. 

She cast her eyes quickly up the way from whence 
the strangers had emerged. But what lay beyond? 

She scanned the high walls that enclosed the rear 
of the lots near by. Oh! that she had the strength of 
a man, that she might now scale the barrier which 
stood between her and liberty! Once inside she might 
secrete herself till morning. In vain was her despair- 
ing hand raised to the high wall. Her position was 
becoming less and less tenable. Indeed it was now 
desperate. A motley crew of roughs who had joined in 


38 The Mystery of Louise Poliard. 

the chase like dog’s were peering- into every shadow 
and nook. Alas! she saw the long- rays of the dark 
lantern falling- here and there with its circular lig-ht 
upon the walls ; another flash and possibly it would 
fall upon her. She sprang- to her feet and rushed to- 
ward the arch whose rayless arms stood outstretched 
in g-loomy silence. 

As she swiftly passed along- in the overhanging 
shadow of the wall, a thought passed through her 
mind which brought her feet to an instant stop. 

What was she entering? There was not the pres- 
ence of a single ray of light ahead to tell. For a 
moment she stood beneath the arch. In front was a 
dungeon — inhabited perhaps! It was as one looking 
into an abyss! A mysterious vapor issued from the 
place and touched her with its clammy hands. Where 
was she? She shuddered. 

The home of sin has its sinister vestibule. Intui- 
tively the heart awakens on the threshold of the hor- 
rible. In the atmosphere of the haunt of crime our 
fears shape in us dreadful premonitions, and nature 
breeds her palpable token. 

She feared to think of the possible destiny which 
lay but a few steps ahead. 

There was a dampness in the fetid atmosphere of 
this place which even in the hot months of summer 
caused the intruder to shudder. It was like entering 
a mouldy vault or subterraneous passage-way. Cau- 
tiously she placed her hand against the wall, but drew 
it away instantly, for she felt the presence of rank, 
damp fungi, which grew from the bricks and stones. 


The Mystery of Lquise Pollard. 39 

In the alleys of New York the traveler sometimes 
finds himself shut off by an impassable wall. What 
if this one suddenly came to a stop! The thought 
appalled her. 

Hesitating on the threshold she dwelt upon a thou- 
sand imaginings. She peered with frightful eyes 
into the depth and could see nothing. But again she 
distinctly heard the conversation of the advancing 
pursuers. No possible doom which lay in front of her 
was a match to that approaching steadily from the 
rear. How to measure the cause and depth of her 
awful wretchedness we may learn hereafter. Had the 
ocean spread its vast waters at her feet, she would have 
plunged in. 

She advanced — feeling her way. The tread of her 
feet, though soft and gliding, gave forth a hollow 
sound. With eyes broadly open, she strained vainly 
into the blank darkness which was slowly encompass- 
ing her. The voices of her pursuers were steadily 
multiplying! Her speed was accelerated. 

She had advanced into the recess some rods, when 
she observed her tread was growing more hollow. 
Indeed, did she not hear echos coming from in front? 
The thought horrified her! 

Putting forth her hand and carefully but swiftly 
gliding — hopeing that every next step would break the 
darkness with some friendly ray, she steadily advanced. 

Presently, without warning, the sound of her feet 
became more circumscribed. Thrusting her hand 
madly forth, she came to a wall! 

All was over. Her blood congealed to ice. She 


40 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

fell in a quivering- heap as one stricken. All now was 
rayless nig-ht. 

Desparing-ly clutching- her infant to her breast, she 
held aloft her naked arm and cried, “My God, I am 
lost!” The terrible walls echoed her voice — then, 
silence. 

Seeming-ly she had entered chaos. The mad whirl 
of a thousand dreadful imag-es swept throug-h her dis- 
tracted brain. Some distance down the alley she 
heard the foremost of her pursuers cry — “bring- a lig-ht, 
I hear a voice.” Then, oh! what terrors were hers. 
She no long-er strove to stifle the cries of the infant. 
She had been for the moment transformed ; sense, 
courag-e, hope, will, all had fled, and she uttered a 
shriek of despair, in its cadence, more animal than 
human. It startled the boldest of the oncoming- pack. 
Suddenly her brain was seized by a g-iddy whirl. She 
felt her life itself forsaking- her. 

Terror has its boundaries. She had approached to 
the very verg-e of it. Steadily the fatal shadows from 
in front, her pursurers, were slowly closing- upon her. 

Suddenly — as if by mag-ic— there came a trans- 
formation. 

A hoarse whisper, proceeding- from an obscure cor- 
ner was heard to say, “ who’s there? ” and instantly 
a pencil of lig-ht fell athwart the g-loom. 

Had the lig-ht been the shining- wand of an ap- 
proaching- ang-el it could not have more completely 
penetrated her soul. “Who’s there?” — ag-ain de- 
manded the husky whisper. 

How entirely in accord with this sullen realm was 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


41 


the startling- cadence of that voice. It was as if the 
genius of that dark abode had taken shape. “ Who’s 
there, I say? ” repeated the voice. 

“ I am wretchedness!” cried the despairing mother. 
“Oh, save me! Oh, pity; mercy; shelter! In the 
name of the God we both fear, save me! ” 

“ This way! ” responded the voice in a whisper. 

In the next instant she felt herself raised from off 
her feet by a powerful arm. 


CHAPTER V. 


A RAY OF FIGHT. 



D OSE Cimarron listened with an interest, of an 
* ' intensity’ approaching abstraction. 

We were now seated alone in the library-wing of 
her magnificent home. 

“Hasten! Is this woman Louise Pollard?” 
exclaimed she, with a flush of excitement upon her 
cheek, at the same moment unconsciously allowing 
her guitar to slip from her lap till it rested upon the 
soft rug at her feet. Finally she again inquired — 
“was this woman afflicted with a mental disorder of 
any nature ? ” 

I enjoyed Rose’s anxiety. 

The flush of her cheeks and her wide-open eyes 
would not permit me to rest. I picked up the thread 

where I had dropped it. 

* * * * * * 

Sympathy is the mysterious link which binds 
together both mote and star. Wretchedness finds its 


42 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


friend in wretchedness. The worm will not devour its 
fellow. In this horrible place the young- mother and 
infant had found a friend — who the woman knew not — 
nor could she scarcely divine what. 

She could discern nothing- — the darkness was so 
intense — but the shape of the being- who carried her, 
as appeared by the hips and the rotundity of the arm, 
was that of a woman. She was in the grasp of a 
giantess whose size dwarfed her body to that of a 
child. Over the sullen pavement she felt herself being- 
carried by the monster. Cling-ing- to her child while 
her own body was in the grasp of this powerful being-, 
whose mysterious presence she could not explain, she 
yielded to the demoniac embrace and trusted in this 
being- — man or fiend — as yields the 'mind under an 
hallucination. 

In a moment she heard the creaking of a door and 
felt herself thrust throug-h a narrow entrance. Then 
succeeded the rattle of bolts. 

She had emerged from darkness into oblivion! By 
her side, invisible, stood the deliverer, and she shud- 
dered as she felt her own body touched by the elbow 
of the being. 

When again she heard the the husky whisper — 
made now sepulchral by the overpowering darkness 
— she involuntarily drew back and stared into space 
before her, but could see nothing. Momentarily she 
was as a child under the enchantment of an ogre. A 
cold thrill ran down her neck to her very waist. What 
lips could utter such discordant notes? Of what form 
and nature was the head and visage? 


The Mystery of L ouise Pollard. 43 

Again in a whisper it said, “ Stand here! I’s come 
again. Be silent,” — and then was heard a heavy creak- 
ing tread over the floor, and presently the fugitive 
was alone. 

She stood, horribly reflecting upon the dreams, 
fables and legends which in her youth she had read or 
heard, and the blanched cheek of childhood again 
returned to her. Her eyes nervously turned here and 
there upon the intense darkness, her heart throbbing 
in her heaving chest. 

She pondered, unmindful of the nearness of her 
enemies. Suddenly seized with mad fear , to herself 
she exclaimed: — “Where am I ?” She thrust out her 
hand toward the door, and touched the huge bolts. 
Then placing her head near the door, which to her 
surprise she found was made of iron, she listened 
intently, but heard nothing. Grasping her infant 
she drew back trembling in the dark — paused and 
reflected. Presently the light of hope fell across her 
mind, for she recalled these words: “Pursue that 
route, dwelling upon your means to escape. You will 
look up and the sense of fear will cause you to shudder. 
You will look vainly in all directions. Alas! you will 
be lost! But hark! Though lost to the world, } t ou 
will save yourself and child.” Was the utterance 
of the old man prophetic? She did not known ; but it 
gave her courage. For a moment it chased away evil 
forebodings. She stood in the rayless dark, reflecting. 
Presently the creaking of a door announced the pres- 
ence of some one approaching. Then was heard the 
same heavy tread, and the fugitive knew who it was. 


44 The Mystery of Louise Pollard 

In the next instant there was heard a sharp metallic 
click, and a lantern provided with a screen, shed its 
light over the room. Before the astonished gaze of 
tne fugitive stood the form of a negress. 

Hideous black tufts of wiry beard grew upon the 
corners of her chin. The brow was low and wore a 
piercing frown. The pupils of the eyes were encircled 
with that startling whiteness common to the optics of 
negroes. The jaws were enormous — the skull was 
small. The lips were peculiarly thick, and livid on 
their inner surface. A thick, short wool, intensely 
black, covered the scalp. The visage was uncommonly 
black. The massive hands were clothed with tallons 
for nails. 

This horrible vision transfixed her. A giddiness 
came over her brain. Instantly, but involuntarily, she 
hid the child’s face from view, and sank back, grasp- 
ing at the wall to support herself. 

Looking her fixedly in the eyes, the negress 
addressed her — “What is it, miserable woman?” 

The fugitive felt her tongue cleave to the roof of 
her mouth, as she stared speechlessly into the hideous 
face. 

“ Who be you? ” asked the negress. 

Still the woman stood gazing. She moved her lips, 
but there was no sound. Her eyes were leaping from 
their sockets. 

“ Whar yous come from?” 

The woman was overpowered — she trembled and 
again made an effort to speak. 

“ Savannah,” she semi-consciously gasped. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


45 


At this there was a strange look about the black 
face; and it repeated — “Savany ! — Pears dars mystery 
bout.” 

Suddenly there was heard some sharp, hasty knocks 
at the door. The negress instantly darkened the 
lantern, went to the door and pushed back a wicket 
which covered an aperture to which she placed her 
face and repeated the old inquiry. 

“ Whose thar? ” 

The answer came in a whisper — “A friend, let me 
in.” 

“Donahy, what youens after,” inquired the neg- 
ress. 

“We are looking for a woman and a child 

“ They’s not hea!” quickly responded the negress. 

“There’s a large reward for the arrest,” added a 
man on the outside. 

“How much?” inquired the negress. 

“One hundred dollars,” responded the voice in a 
whisper. 

“For de woman alone? ” 

“For woman and child.” 

“ Gib me de scription,” demanded the negress. 

“In a moment,” answered the voice, and the wicket 
was closed. The negress turned and reached forth her 
arms — “Why, whar’s you gwine? ” exclaimed she. 
Again she opened the lantern. The mother with her 
infant in her arms was crouching in one corner. The 
negress approached them. 

Falling upon her knees in pitiful terror and clutch- 
ing her infant to her breast the woman bound herself 


46 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


to the nether limbs of the negress as she would cling' 
for life to her last possible hope. The negress halted 
before that terrible face — its stony eyes and quivering 
lips, from which issued no audible sound. Clutching 
at the dress and gripping the hand of the negress, 
presently the low, frantic appeals, inaudible to those 
on the outside, broke upon the ear — “ Don’t give me to 
them! Don’t give me up! Don’t give me up! In 
God’s name, I call upon you! Do you know suffering? 
Do you know wretchedness? Do you know bondage? 
Harken to me but for a moment. Think of the misery 
of the millions of your own race. My misery is a 
thousand times worse. Don’t give me to them! Pity — 
pity! Stop and listen to me! It may be I, also, 
have money. It may be you have secrets and feelings 
deep as my own. Perhaps you have a child? Think 
of it in chains at this very moment. Think of its 
bleeding back beneath the slave-man’s lash. You 
have known a mother’s tears. Oh help me to save 
myself and child!” Then suddenly dropping her 
voice even lower, she looked into the very soul of the 
negress and exclaimed: “Forget not, oh woman, that 
God, even in this dark abode is looking upon us!” 

“Silence! miserable woman,” exclaimed the ne- 
gress. 

There was a knock at the door. The negress 
darkened the lantern and stepped forward. Again 
she pushed back the iron wicket and a voice asked: 

“ Is this you, Sally?” 

“ Yes sah,” replied the negress. The woman had 
retreated out of the range of any eyes that might 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


47 


appear in case the lantern was opened. A face came 
to the wicket and began in a husky whisper: 

“The woman we seek is a brunette. She is slight 
but has a good form. She wears a dark, neatly fitting 
dress, much soiled with dust. Her child is very 
young. She was last seen in this place and must be 
within. You might as well make the reward. We 
intend to get her.” 

The voice was that of Minister Cunningham. 

Another face came to the wicket but no audible 
sound escaped it. The image of the negress was 
dimly visible to the eyes that were fastening upon her. 
This last face at the wicket was that of Vulcan. As 
his eyes scanned the huge form before him they 
wildly dilated, then nervously twitched in their sock- 
ets as if the brain was spell-bound by the vision; 
finally with a serpentine steadiness they riveted 
themselves upon her. For a moment the negress 
returned their piercing focus. Suddenly exasperated, 
she exclaimed in a cadence as only a negro wench 
can: “G’way from da! black chile — g’wine ’way, I 
says!” The eyes did not move. They were fastened 
upon her. “G’way I says!” again remonstrated the 
wench. She menacingly rushed at the face and 
violently closed down the wicket. There was a des- 
pairing groan on the outside. In mental agony unob- 
served in the darkness Vulcan in despair raised his 
hands to his head and clutched his fingers into his 
wooly hair — stood there in the rayless dark, his heart 
beating with furious knocks in his chest like a beast 
in its cage. Thanks to a strange Providence the ne- 
gress was unconscious of this. 


48 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


Presently she opened the wicket again, this time 
just barely wide enough to allow the sound of her 
voice to be heard by those on the outside, saying: 

“ Youens stay about; I’sguine be after returnen in 
ten minutes.” She then closed down the wicket. 
Again the lantern shed its beams over the room. 

“ Missus, come! You can’t stay heah. Must ’scape 
instantly ! Dese here ’thorities — deys got to be beyed — 
deys police out da!” And taking the fugitive by the 
hand they started forth, while the negress continued, 
sometimes looking with ogreish eyes into the face of 
the fugitive, “come long! Don’t be suspecten of me. 
I’s a very wicked critter, Missus, I knowed; and 
p’hapsl bars a hard name. But don’t be a suspecten 
uv me.” The tender motion of the mother’s arms 
and her constant care had soothed the child again to 
sleep. They passed through a dark room which was 
seemingly void of furniture and entered a hall which 
led to a door. Unlatching the door they came into a 
dimly lighted room, through which they passed, and 
after many windings came to a flight of stairs. They 
ascended, turned short to the left and gently opened a 
door — first rapping to warn some possible inmate of 
their approach. 

It was an unexpected transformation. In fact 
with the recollections of that which they had just left 
the present scene was bewildering. They had entered 
the vestibule of crime. The young woman did not 
comprehend the fact. Rugs and rich carpets covered 
the floor, and the room was spacious and adorned. 
The negress observed the woman’s gray eyes to fix in 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 49 

wonderment but said nothing. Easy chairs and soft, 
inviting sofas were scattered about. The walls were 
a solid display of art. 

There were fawns and satyrs and nymphs; moon- 
light revels, bacchanalian scenes and paintings of 
nudity. 

Upon a marble mantle sat some small statuary, a 
huge Turkish pipe and two long stemmed opium pipes. 

The woman suddenly stopped, and pressing her 
child to her breast looked upon this scene with in- 
creased awe. 

The air was filled with a pleasing odor, and as the 
two entered, the sound of distant music was heard. Its 
mellow waves broke softly upon their ears as if to 
lull the brain or drive away care. An. intoxicating 
and restful sound stealing upon the senses. Dazed 
by the glitter of the golden frames, the twinkle of the 
mellow lights; her mind momentarily drifting in 
dreams which seemed to come stealing to her upon 
the waves of that music; her thoughts grasped and 
swept away by the unspeakable transformation, the 
fugitive stood entranced. 

The negress enjoyed the effects of her sorcery as 
she stood silently by, looking with great, ogreish 
eyes upon the pale face of the woman. The black 
visage of the negress, her uncommon size, the brow, 
the wooly skull, and the tufted chin in the midst of 
this brilliant display presented a grim contrast. The 
artistic surroundings and the exquisitely unique in- 
terior beauty which pervaded all things, trans- 
formed her into a thing more frightful now than the 


50 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

visage with which nature had cursed her. The white 
woman was silent — bewildered. Presently, between 
long, flowing silken curtains which were suspended in 
the portal of a massive and highly ornamented door- 
casing, there appeared a young woman, one of the 
inmates. The great beauty of her face, body and 
hands, caused our stranger to again halt. Had one 
of the painted nymphs descended from the wall its 
physical beauty could not have been more wonderful. 
With a serene and innocent composure she stood in 
the doorway, at intervals dropping her eyes upon the 
stranger and infant but with no show of emotion. 
This woman could not have been past twenty-two in 
age. Her head was clothed with a luxurious growth 
of blonde hair, which hung loosely in gentle waves 
about her shoulders. 

When her eyes, which were large, opened and 
shut, they shed a soft and liquid light. They had a 
deep, skyish meaning in their wonderful, warm 
depths. The outlines of her brow were perfect, as if 
fresh from the brush of a Master. The curve and color 
of her lips were perfect. Her ear was small and 
shapely. The cheeks bore no mark^' of artificial 
tints; they glowed with health. Nature had made a 
beauty. On her left hand sparkled a jewel. At inter- 
vals her bodily grace was outlined through a soft, 
white, yielding gauze-like gown which clung loosely 
to her, displaying the outlines of her statuesque form. 
While thus posing between the curtains she manipu- 
lated a wine glass in her jeweled hand, and lightly 
sipped by times the sweet intoxicant which it con- 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


51 


tained. And all the while came drifting- the sweet 
and animating- swells of the music. For the instant 
the fug-itive mother had forg-otten the enemy who yet 
were prowling- near. 

“Come!” said the negress breaking- the spell with 
her dissonant voice. “Come!” and the two passed 
slowly throug-h the room and came to another apart- 
ment equally as handsome but somewhat smaller. 
There they met two people — a handsome but drunken 
fellow, reclining- upon a rich divan, talking- to a young- 
woman quite as beautiful as the first, but who, unlike 
the first was chatting- glibly whilst smoking- a cigar- 
ette. 

“ What a sad but beautiful face!” casually quoth 
she, looking at the woman and child with a small 
show of interest but entirely devoid of pity. 

From where our stranger stood looking through a 
handsome corridor she could discern chambers and 
apartments which still on in front were adorned with 
costly hangings; rugs, curtains, furniture and statu- 
ary over which the party-colored lamps shed their gar- 
ish beams. But howsoever remarkable this gallery 
of beauty and art, here and there were the unmis- 
takable tokens of the presiding genius of the place — 
the golden frame of a painting fractured — a costly rug 
soiled with wine — a pistol ball embedded in a window 
casement— a deck of cards outspread upon a mahogany 
deal-table. , 

“Come, let us hasten,” pleaded the white woman. “I 
am unused to these terrible scenes!” 

Where were they? Vice has its palace. Sin may 


52 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

have a gilded mask. Iniquity has a religion. Wor- 
shipping art, it has ensnared a world. Iniquity is 
perhaps, of all worshippers at the shrine of beauty 
and art, the most devout. To conquer iniquity, virtue 
and goodness must out-love and out-worship it, for art 
is a jealous goddess. 

They were passing through one of the most ini- 
quitous of dives in the entire Metropolis; a guilded 
palace, which to enter required passwords and coun- 
tersigns, or introductions from tried and well known 
patrons. 

It was a house where the many games of chance 
were daily and nightly played by gamblers and dupes 
behind iron doors. There vice also had ensnared 
beauty’s trinity. The grace of women, the delight of 
song and the rapture of wine were there; but they 
were in bondage — their sweetness was laden with an 
insidious drug. He who remained long had. been 
poisoned for life. 

This was the Palace of Passion, Robbery and Mur- 
der; a resort so magnificent in all its details, so varied 
in its seductions, so vast in its means, so multitudinous 
in its pleasures, and so diversified in its apartments 
that the most delicate and refined sensibility as well 
as the most vicious could not fail to be enraptured. 
To it were lured the most fastidious ; for though it 
debased the senses and overthrew the conscience, leav- 
ing them to rot in the fever of incurable vice, it 
awakened them with the odor of the rose. 

“ The Home of Black Sally,” — for this was the name 
of this carnal palace in the vernacular of its patrons— 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. S3 

might be entered at one place through a fash- 
ionable and highly ornamented restaurant; at another 
through festoons of flowers; at another through an 
enchafiting gallery of paintings, etchings and en- 
gravings; at another through a fashionable wine 
saloon; or like the mole or the rat its patrons might enter 
through a subterraneous way, or as our acquaintance 
had done it could be entered through the iron grat- 
ing leading to the alley, beneath the overhanging, 
fungus grown arch. 

The fugitive and her grim escort moved hurridly 
through the garish labyrinth. Passing down var- 
nished corridors they would emerge into gilded 
apartments where drinking', gaming, wine-bibing or 
the alurements of sensuality were the absorbing occu- 
pations of the inmates, their ears bathed in the 
ceaseless flow of music, which floated from some in- 
visible point. After passing a window clustering 
with vines, through which the moon now fell in 
beams of soft enchanting fire upon the form of a nymph- 
like girl who lay in apparent sleep upon a huge fes- 
tooned rug, they came at last to a descending stair, 
down which they left the bewildering maze and 
passed toward an outer door, while each step told them 
of the fastly vanishing visions they had left behind. 

Finally they came to a door. They opened it and 
passed out. The fugitive for the first time raised 
her head toward the sky. Aloft in the openings 
between the clouds the stars were twinkling in the 
blue depths and a faint moon was gliding. They 
had entered a back lot where were scattered about 


54 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


wine casks, boxes and the usual debris of such refuse 


depositories. For a moment they both stood silently in 
the dim moonlight, as is the custom of those who 
suspect the presence of possible danger. ♦ 


CHAPTER VI. 


NEW YORK RETROSPECT — BEACK SAEEY TAEKS — ENTER- 
ING “THE DISMAES.” 


original structure of the land upon which a 



* city is built, together with the original environ- 
ments to a great extent predetermines its gen- 
eral geographical aspect. Of all the features of the 
great city of New York, the fact that it has been built 
upon a rocky island on an arm of the sea is perhaps 
the most remarkable. 

Probably no city in the world has been to greater 
expense in development than this Metropolis. The 
original structure of Manhattan Island with its 
hills, its rock, its marshes, its lakes and its ravines 
would have foretold the labor that would be necessary 
to build the foundation of a great city. 

At a period during the subjugation of the Dutch 
by the English and the re-christening of that social 
nucleus, which under its vanquished Holland inhabi- 
tants bore the name of New Amsterdam, the con- 
querers found their possession a rude, unassuming vil- 
lage, whose architecture seemed the most grotesque of 
which human taste is capable. The streets were nar- 
row or broad according to the private whims of each 
property owner. They were tortious or sinuous 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 55 

according- — as the inimitable Irving- has said — to the 
various deviations and intersections of the ancient 
trails of the villag-e cows, the only approved surveyors 
of New Amsterdam. 

Down these crooked thoroughfares grew up under 
the dynasty of the Dutch, irregular rows of monoto- 
nous stone and brick buildings of which “Wiseman’s 
Inn,” will serve as an example. In them, variety and 
beauty were entirely forgotten ; durability and incon- 
venience were universally achieved. In the forgotton 
and now ostracised parts of the city, to as late as the 
year 1885 might have been seen structures of the New 
Amsterdam period. They were gloomy and covered 
with decay, yet affording shelter to man. Their 
inhabitants were a motely crew of frightful people 
picked from all earthly climes — the footsore journey- 
men, who crawl about in the substratum of all great 
cities. The age of these ‘ ‘ knickerbockers ” in some 
cases point to that dim primeval time in America, 
when as yet the isolated colonies along the Atlantic 
coast, were divided and hedged about by great nations 
of Indians, whose prowess in that early day, great 
England herself recognized whilst before the wigwam 
princess she knelt submissively. “Wiseman’s Inn” 
was nearly one hundred years old when Washington’s 
guns were opened at White Plains. It had sheltered 
a youth who in after years fell in King Philips’ war. 
In the days of the episode now being related there 
was extant a legend to the effect that in the spacious 
room, where had sat Reverend Cunningham and his 
friend, Stuyvesaunt himself had been toasted on more 


56 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

than one occasion. But, be it as it may, we shall 
leave the legend to the credulity or incredulity of the 
antiquary and pass on ; for decrepitude and death cover 
with their dust all living things, till legends themselves 
are lost in the dim chaos which rolls its clouds over all 
the past. The original founders of the city of which 
we speak, being extremely conservative in their 
natures, slightly unprogressive in their arts, conven- 
tional in all things and lovers and copyists of their 
fatherland, in building their town yielded to the 
curves of the ravines, swamps, lakes and hills of the 
island and thus laid a net-work of streets which to-day 
in the old part of the city puzzles the brains of the 
oldest inhabitant. 

The modern traveler passing along the granite 
pavements of the avenues and streets, as they to-day 
exist, can little imagine the immense hills that have 
been leveled, the dismal swamps that have been filled, 
and the ravines that have been converted into huge 
underground ways as sewers and waste ducts to that 
now mighty city. What would be his surprise, if 
while walking along Broad street, he were informed, 
that in the midst of this street in the pristine days of 
New Amsterdam ran a respectable stream ; up whose 
waters the Dutch oyster-barges of that time came into 
the very heart of the city? 

Yet, would not that surprise be heightened, if 
while standing to-day within the gloomy shadow of 
the “ Tombs” he were informed that, that monument 
marked the sight where once lay a lake in whose 
waters a respectable navy might have harbored? But 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 57 

change is the universal order of all earthly things, and 
these pictures here thrown in, are but microscopic, and 
save for their particular relation to our acquaintances 
can well be overlooked when compared to the vast 
changes that in a few generations have wrought a 
mighty nation where once lay the bewildering forests 
and trackless prairies of a continent. 

But in the ongoing change of great cities, there is 
one feature deserving a special notice, as it illustrates 
in a degree the proposition first announced in the pres- 
ent chapter, and sheds some light as well over our 
future pathway. 

How naturally gregarious is mankind — even in 
peace and when the environment of home know nought 
but the story of content? Mutual protection seems not 
the law of them as of lower animals, their more humble 
brethren, yet do they ever throng and strive together. 
When the first advantages of sympathy and union are 
achieved by association, yet does the thickening process 
of society go on, till we are no more astonished, that 
at one period in the recorded past, man — thoroughly 
discontented with his nature and his fellows — strove to 
rend the social chain, and thus betook himself to caves 
and the unpeopled deserts. 

As population in the great social centers increases, 
and space becomes more valuable, the once unoccupied 
lands — fit only for swine and geese — become by slow 
irresistible pressure the homes of human beings. The 
lakes gradually fill, the swamps are encroached upon 
and finally succumb to the unyielding and evergrow- 
ing demands for inhabitable space. In this vast and 


58 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


necessary change of populous centers there is an 
unavoidable social attrition, the ceaseless spring of 
human ills. 

Those in affluence hold the heights whilst those in 
dirth, with less light, less pure air, hover forever 
upon the swamps. As rents increase, homes are 
exchanged for dens, humanity is pushed back again 
toward the animal; houses which in the past served as 
storage rooms and out-houses are fitted into dwellings; 
the low lands are encroached Upon till all available 
space is occupied. Then begins that mode of packing 
humanity closer day by day peculiar to the overcrowd- 
ing of all large cities, where life becomes a ceaseless 
battle, where man again produces the cannibal in man 
- a home for vice, a nest for spontaneous diseases, the 
lurking place of a million different forms of human 
misery. 

Thus likewise has been the history of New York. 
The many unhealthful spots, the miasmatic swamps, 
characteristic of the original structure underlying 
that great city indicated years in advance where these 
deplorable and unavoidable social affliction must nec- 
essarily spring forth. 

The density of the social darkness at many of these 
localities — due to the density of ignorance, the com- 
moness of crime, the prevalence of numerous forms 
of disease, and the sad depths of poverty, for a full 
quarter of a century, made some of them bear the unen- 
viable fame of being the nests of the most atrocious 
crime and brazen sin upon the face of the earth — the 
slums of London being incomparable to them. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


& 


Police and sanitary inspectors, when duty called 
them to these resorts, advanced in squads. At one time 
near “ Five Points ” — so named from the peculiar con- 
vergence of three streets upon each other at a single 
center — it was said a herd of animals could not be 
driven through and keep its number intact. How- 
ever, it was not from one of these localities that our 
acquaintance was being escorted, but to one she was 
destined to go. 

The home of “Black Sally,” though approachable 
by a rear entrance, like that through which chance 
had designed for the fugitive woman to enter, yet, 
faced upon one of the great business streets in an 
otherwise highly respectable and suspicionless quar- 
ter. 


When the negress and the fugitive had progressed 
a few steps in the direction of a high brick wall which 
enclosed the rear of the lot through which they were 
passing, the negress halted. The child, having 
quietly nursed, had fallen to sleep. The lofty form 
of the negress towered above the white woman as 
they stood for some moments peering into the shad- 
ows and stealthily listening. The light of the moon, 
which shone upon their features with peculiar effect- 
iveness, defined the outlines of their bodies against 
the dark back ground. All for a time was silent. 
Presently one spoke. “ Mistus,” began the negress, 
looking into the face of the woman in a manner 
strangely confiding, “you says, Mistus, yous from 


66 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

Savanny. Look here now — ’’she slightly hesitated 
as one fearful of the result of some tale their hearts 
are aching to tell. Hanging her head, she slowly 
said. “ Mistus, I’s not in the habit uv conliden with 
any body, but see’in yous straight from dar, I’s gwine 
to ax you aquextion.” 

The woman was mute. 

“ Does you mind tellen me few words ’bout young 
Massa Cunningham? ” 

“Cunningham!” lowly remarked the woman, 
astonished and somewhat perplexed while her eyes 
illumined, expressive of the thoughts aroused by this 
unexpected question. 

“Yes, Massa Cunningham!” replied the negress, 
rubbing the tufts of black growth upon her chin, and 
looking cautiously from her huge eyes. 

Black Sally had once been a slave. Some eight 
years had now elapsed since the day of her bondage. 

“ Spec you suspicionen now uv me, but see’n your 
straight from dar, I’s jus aken, Mistus, to ax you a 
quexion as jus been breaken dis old black heart, these 
yars.” 

The tone of the remark, though in that husky 
whisper, which, however, seemed a normal attribute 
of the negress, was filled with a tremor of feeling. 
Indeed it was pathetic; for pathos is latent, even in the 
breast of the grossest nature when visions, such as 
those now stirring this being, are within. 

“ Suspect you? — go on — you have no need to fear.” 

“ Mistus,” began the negress, “ does you recollect a 
cullard chile, belonging to Master Cunningham? ” and 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


61 


she sighed. “Ah! laws, laws! — spec he’s right likely 
lad now- -eight years makes right smart a difference 
in chillen.” 

“His name? ” cautiously inquired the woman. 

“ Oh, yes. I’se came near forgeten dat. I’se miser- 
able black critter, Mistus. White folks not suspecten 
uv me haven any ’fections — but deys wrong, Mistus, 
deys wrong. Dese old eyes shed tears in de dark when 
I's alone, thinking of dat poor black chile and fearen 
of de Lord.” The poor creature trembled in her tears 
as she wiped her dampened cheeks. “Yes, yes, dat 
name — declare des pressions ’bout dis here heart driv 
me into forgetten again,” and her voice filled with 
maternal longings as she reflected upon the reminis- 
cences of her life, brokenly revealed by her crude 
remarks. 

“His name — well now!” — her huge negro eyes 
widening as she -contemplated the problematic beauty 
of that, which to her wretched breast was sacred — 
sainted though it might have been, deep with iniquity, 
and capable, perhaps of crime; for of all the unsounded 
depths, that of the degredation of the human heart is 
sometimes the most unfathomable. For a moment the 
contemplation of her child which she had not seen for 
years shed a strange light throughout her being, and 
its magic for the moment disarmed her visage of its 
ogreish expression. 

“Listen, Mistus,” quoth she, “with all you white 
soul listen. Why de sound uv dat name set de cullared 
folks wile with jealous feelens. Hark now — I’s gwine 
to speak dat name as has all de music uv heaben for 


62 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

dis poor critter — ‘ Vulcan! ’ Mistus was dat poor chil’s 
name. Oh! Mistus,” cried the poor thing in her tears, 
“ jouens not suspecten uv my feelens when I’se pro- 
nounce dat name,” and the poor black creature, as 
she touched this magic cord, thrilled with an emotion, 
which throughout the many years of her race’s bond- 
age had made more sensative the acute stings of 
slavery ; for Black Sally had known what it Was to 
have her child sold from her breast into bondage. 

“ Vulcan! ” exclaimed the fugitive in a low voice, 
thoughtfully, while visibly touched with sympathy ; 
though silently astonished at the tears of Black Sally, 
— for ugliness is a solemn fault, even when blessed 
with a white skin, and it oft hides the luminous rays 
of the heart. 

“Vulcan? Yes,” reiterated Louise, pondering at 
the negress and striving to decipher the possible 
thoughts, now so rousing that being. 

“Yes, yes!” began the* negress in cautious but 
agitated tones as she read the favorable tokens in the 
woman’s face. “Yes, thar, I’s sarten uv it Mistus!” 
she lowly but feelingly exclaimed, inspired by the 
hopes of tidings which were the value of the round 
earth to her. “Oh! laws! laws! Mistus,” cried the 
wretch in a delirium, “Oh! de Lord sent you! Let 
dis miserable critter kissde him uv you garment. ’’And 
the exalted wench, wrapped in beams of gratitude and 
love, perhaps as radiant in the face of heaven as those 
of many a whiter being, fell upon her knees, buried 
her black visage in the folds of the dusty dress, weep- 
ing for joy. After a time, lifting her dark face damp- 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


63 


ened with tears, she began tearfully: “You see, Mis- 
tus, theys done gone and sole em all off, and driv em 
to Lousiane, but dat bressed little brat — laws — laws — 
Mistus, his face was black es er crow,” and as though 
to magnify the quality of the child — for colored mothers 
were jealous of the monetary value of their children, 
the block being the supreme judge in all particulars 
pertaining to their race, she added: “ Mistus, he was 
wuth a clean five hundred when six months old. And 
dat what made me shudder, for I knowed de fate was 
a hangen of him round. Den, soon Mas’er come shien 
roun, 'casten eyes upon which one uv dem for to take, 
and I says, ‘ Massa, I’s willen to work till I’s drap, 
but you take dat chile, an I dies shor.’ And Massa 
jus kinder smile and says, 4 taint no use, Sally ; what 
did you bornd him into de worl for, if you spec Massa 
Cunningham warn’t prayen to de Lord for a sarvent? ’ 
Laws — laws, dat war de hell fire for dis black flesh! 
I’s eat nuthen for four days. T’warn’t no use, Mistus, 
just peared de Lord was a agravaten uv me and I’s 
trod upon by all de wuld. I culdn’t bar it, so I’stuck 
flight.” 

“Hush!” enjoined the woman, putting her finger 
to her lips. “ Do you see that form upon the balcony, 
slightly hidden by the shadows? ” 

The form to which she was referring was that of a 
man. He was casually standing upon one of the rear 
balconies which was connected with the ground by 
wooden stairs, dimly lighted at the rear of the third 
building to the left. 

“ Yes,” hurriedly exclaimed the negress. “ Come, 


64 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

Mistus, we must be off. Let me tote de chile.” The 
sleeping infant was placed in the arms of Black Sally, 
and the mother confidently grasped her elbow. They 
instantly passed the gate, and relocking the same, 
started on a run in the opposite direction from whence 
they had discerned the man, keeping the while in the 
shadow. 

Black Sally was heading toward “The Dismals” 
of New York. Although quite ignorant of the inten- 
tions of the black escort, the woman submitted her 
delicate hand in the animal-like grasp of the negress, 
and with child-like confidence now followed the wind- 
ing path of the monster as she hurried through the 
many alleys with the expertness of an animal. 

Though the moon spread a faint light, they chose 
the shadow. Stopping suddenly by times, the black 
creature would hold her breath, silently listening for 
the slightest noise, as is noticeable in the cunning of 
people when they think themselves pursued. The 
moonlight environments yielding nothing to the ear, 
except, perhaps, the rattle of horses feet upon the 
distant pavements, the rapid journey would again be 
resumed between the ragged and dilapidated build- 
ings, lofty brick walls and other structures which 
lined their route through the alleys and across the 
streets. After many blocks had been made, and the 
woman dripping with perspiration, saw how fast the 
terrible spot had dropped behind, where likely yet stood 
her pursuers, could not help reflecting as she breathed 
an air of comparative security how mysterious and 
uncontrolable had been the shapings of her rescue. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 65 

They had pursued their route some distance when 
the increasing- dilapidation of the buildings betrayed 
the unmistakable symptoms of the increasing squalor 
of the neighborhood. 

Howevei , the woman was too much engaged with 
thoughts of the strange experience of the night and 
too abandoned to the negress to observe but hastily 
the reeking, sad conditions of the miserable shambles 
about her. She had observed with much perplexity, 
however, several human forms sleeping soundly upon 
drays, or upon the bare and blanketless earth ; 
among whom lay one wrinkled old woman — her head 
upon a basket, her misshapen feet shoeless, the moon- 
beams playing upon her half-clad, aged body which 
had been bent and withered by many a frost; yet 
the air being warm she now was snoring comfortably 
upon her roughly improvised couch. 

Through the uncommon stillness of the night and 
between the silent but foreboding shambles on either 
side, the flight was continued; at times passing rapidly 
across the streets where the light unavoidably fell 
upon their bodies, and again darting into the gloomy 
alleys they hastened their course. 

Suddenly they emerged into an uncommonly narrow 
street, paved with round irregular stones. Down this 
they started in a hurried walk ; the negress furiously 
panting and perspiring: the fugitive awed into silence 
by the lofty form of her escort. 

The narrow street, down which they were hurry- 
ing, is to-day completely obliterated by the huge 
buttress of the Brooklyn bridge. It was then a locality, 


66 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


for blocks about, claimed from its original marshes by 
loathsome tanneries and noisesome foundries, inter- 
mingled with which stood the squalid dwelling's of the 
most abject poor. On either side of the hurrying* 
pair arose the miserable hovels ; leaning- upon their 
decaying- sills, exchanging- mutual grimaces from 
patched and riven sides, threatening- from their unsober 
foundations, the very travelers passing- over the 
irregular pavements. 

The swaying- roofs covered with a green fungi, the 
sheeting warped and brown ; the ghastly glassless 
windows ; the tumbled chimneys ; the tottering doors ; 
the blackened, charred remains of miserable roofs, still 
clung to as a shelter ; the stench which now and then 
came up from the inhabited cellars — the sea of sleep- 
ing, human fungi now stretched' upon their rack-like 
couches, breathing the hot atmosphere of an August 
night — this entire scene lighted by the pale beams of 
the moon, furnished a scene, the like of which can be 
duplicated during the hot months in most of the 
crowded cities of the world. For such is the lot of 
extreme poverty the world over. To complete this 
solemn picture we must recall the form of the timid 
woman, her hair falling in dark disheveled waves at 
her back, her pale face, her curious, wide-open eyes, 
looking out from their brown depths as child-like she 
followed the steps of her grim escort in the narrow 
street skirted with these bristling hovels. Indeed it 
was a most uncommon sight had there been any eyes 
at that midnight hour to gaze upon them. 

They were silently stealing through that accursed 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 67 

locality where monstrosity with her hideous litter 
keeps her daily lair. On they sped over the irregular 
and neglected curbstones upon their midnight jour- 
ney — the young white woman a little in the rear, her 
hand locked in the mammoth arm of the negress who 
from the first step had observed a studied silence. 

As they cautiously progressed through the silence, 
each engrossed in her own particular reverie, suddenly 
the peals of a clock in some distant tower arrested them. 
They halted — keeping count. The strokes announced 
in slow, solemn tones the twelfth hour. They had met 
but one being, and that, a man whose hurried gait 
soon took him out of sight. A few lights were yet 
faintly glimmering, from some windows. Presently, 
as they were passing in front of a small neglected 
dwelling, they witnessed a scene, which, though com- 
mon in those localities, yet deserves a mention. It 
possessed no particular interest to the negress but 
thrilled the white woman with pity and wonderment. 

Upon a wooden stoop in front of a wretched house 
lay the outstretched form of a girl ; not past sixteen 
in age. Her shoes were without laces ; torn and but 
half clinging to her shapely feet, her limbs, which the 
shabby dress partially failed to protect, were reclining 
over the steps. A sad picture — one hand slightly 
closed and the bare arm folded upon the breast, while 
the other lay close by her side. The moonbeams 
falling upon the handsome but pale face wrapped in 
slumber, its white light stealing over the blonde hair 
turning it to gold where it hung in unusual length 
down at the side, the small guileless mouth, the lips, 


68 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

parted with an incipient smile betraying* the mental 
mirag*e which probably for the moment filled the 
deluded soul with transitory delights — sad, unusually 
sad! And yet, with all this — very remarkable indeed 
— there was a general content which seemed to 
enswath her countenance, even in the midst of the 
awful squalor which cast its shadow on every side ; 
revealing the solemn fact, that she was a child enured 
to those environments — unconscious of her destiny, as 
she lay in the grasp of that dread monster, poverty. 

Black Sally knew the- child. She was an innocent 
little fruit vender. What a strange fate society metes 
out to purity and sin! The girl of sin and carnal guilt 
lying upon the palace rug, surrounded by every com- 
fort of luxury and art — this child of innocence and 
beauty sleeping in the street. 

They had not progressed far from this scene when 
the negress halted before the door of a low stone build- 
ing. She carefully looked about, then gently knocked 
upon the window casement. Presently there was a 
slight noise within, and they were aware they had 
summoned the household. This was soon confirmed 
by the appearance of an old lady at an open window 
through which she thrust her body. That this creature 
was very aged was quite evident. Her head was 
covered with matted grey and tumbled locks, which 
was discernable in the moonlight, falling aslant the 
house and lighting up the casement where they stood. 
Her face was withered, her mouth sunken from absence 
of teeth, her chin nearly met her nose, and her eyes, 
around which age had plowed his many furrows peeped 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 63 

and blinked from their aged recesses. With a piping 
voice and words distinct^ colored with a German 
accent she answered them and inquired of the negress 
what was wanted. It was plain the negress and she 
had previously met. 

The negress came close and whispered inaudibly to 
the aged crone, who, with a mutter, indistinct to the 
fugitive, and a shake of her head, which indicated all 
was well, left them and disappeared, closing the 
window after her. Presently she appeared at the 
door where she stood shaking, with palsied feebleness 
her pitiful veinous hands, while speaking some words 
with that peculiar trembling and dropping of the lips 
characteristic of extreme age. Our acquaintances 
immediately disappeared within the house. 


CHAPTER VII. 

WHENCE AND WHITHER. 

next Thursday evening, at seven-thirty, I 
will be at home,” remarked Rose Cimarron, as 
I bade her adieu in the evening shadows. Her emo- 
tion, noticeable in the light of her eyes and the inflec- 
tion of her voice, gave me momentary cause for reflec- 
tion. “Very well,” answered I, “I may then hear 
you read that selection from ‘Arnold’s Light of Asia,’ 
to which you specially referred.” 

The intervening days hastened by and the hour 
arrived — a beautiful, October evening. “We will 
defer the ‘ Light of Asia ’ to an indefinite future if 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


70 

you will permit.” — “At your will, Rose,” interrupted I, 
for I instantly realized the key-note of her momentary 
desires. She had just arisen from the piano, flushed 
with high musical emotions — inspirations from Liszt. 
“Rose, your renditions of those instrumentals are 
grand,” remarked I, waving her to the piano, “but 
just now let us have a song.” She smiled a consent ; 
sat dow, ran her fingers swiftly up and down the key- 
board ; struck the cord that pleased her ; posed, 
elevating her small chin and displaying her beautiful 
throat from which presently came those smooth, sweet 
tones, quivering in all their parts with that remark- 
able feeling which upon all occasions of this kind 
were the peculiar attributes of her magic. 

The loose coil of dark hair at the back of Rose’s 
head was held together by the only conspicuous article 
of jewelry she then wore, a diamond brooch ; save, 
however, a small but costly emerald ring which glist- 
ened by times upon her left hand. Why was I not 
then enraptured with Rose’s extraordinary beauty? 

We were seated in our accustomed retreat, the 
library-wing of the mansion. The dark evening shad- 
ows were dispelled by the subdued lights of the massive 
chandelier which swung from the center of the lofty 
ceiling. 

This spacious apartment was ornamented on the 
left by a rich, grand tapestry which swung in great 
golden folds from the ceiling to the floor, in places 
caught up with a heavy silken cord, at the ends of 
which hung massive silvery tassels. 

The pieces of furniture about the room were made 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 7i 

from a deep red wood, the surface of which the artist 
had brought to a most perfect polish and had carved 
with arabesque figures of the most eccentric but strik- 
ingly beautiful pattern. Upon the floor there was a 
soft, yielding carpet in which was also wrought 
strange designs, in harmony with the marvelous work- 
manship of the furniture. A massive lamp, made of 
polished brass and ornamented with fanciful scrolls 
and oriental figures, sat upon a writing cabinet far 
away at the opposite end of the room. The walls were 
adorned with a few costly paintings and engravings. 
There were present, also, several huge cases of books. 

When Rose had finished ; arising from the piano 
she walked to the open window where she stood look- 
ing out between the leaves of the vines. I also arose 
and stood by her thoughtfully. Finally she turned 
and lowly spoke — “Will you reveal to me one thing — 
who was this woman, and was Louise Pollard afflicted 
with any peculiar mental malady? ” 

I smiled, and waved Rose to an easy chair near me. 
I then continued. 

********* 

Something near a week after the occurrence I have 
last related, in the gray of the morning, the early 
pedestrians who were passing the corner of Bare 
Market observed a spectacle. 

Although a common sight to the eyes of those 
moving in the varied thoroughfares of the great city, 
this was a sight calculated to accentuate all others of 
its nature, and strike sympathy from the coldest 
heart. 


72 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


It was not yet morning-. The dim lig-ht of the 
approaching- sun, still sleeping- in his watery couch in 
the eastern ocean, had not yet spread his beams over 
the city. 

The stars, however, had faded before the fast 
increasing- luminosity of the sky ; and the dun of the 
night, yet hiding- the houses in dim, drowsy veils was 
slowly arising-. A sharp clatter of footsteps could be 
heard a moment before the form which they heralded 
was fully visible ; yet the eyes of those who had been 
walking about for some time would have found no 
trouble in distinguishing- a friend at some distance. 

It was at this hour that a woman was seated upon 
a large stone near the corner of the spacious market 
just mentioned. In her arms she held an infant to 
her breast. It had fallen asleep, and the woman also, 
for that matter — so it appeared by her drooping head. 
The bosom was slightly open, and the white breast 
was visible. Upon it there was a small stain of blood 
which had dried upon the surface, plainly revealing 
at one place a slight laceration. 

The cheap serge in which she was dressed was 
fearfully bedraggled and dust covered, the skirt of 
which was slightly torn from the waist. One sleeve, 
rent to ribbons, left the arm bare to the shoulder. 
Over the white, surface slowly swayed the tatters in 
the light morning breeze. The naked arm was some- 
what befouled for a distance below the elbow. Indeed 
over the entire person could be read the remaining 
signs of a struggle. 

The dark hair partially disheveled hung in glossy 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 73 

waves and small dark strands upon the bleached skin. 
The brow was pale and thought overcast, and the 
mouth melancholy. The edge of the eyelids which 
were covered with handsome dark fringes, were 
slightly swollen and pinkish from past tears — now 
withdrawn into the dry and hollow eyes, which, while 
the unthinking pedestrians at intervals moved by, 
slowly arose and fell, as swells the solemn and evan- 
escent tide, telling a mournful story. Despite the 
pallor of her face and the sunkenness of her cheeks 
there were present the tokens of past beauty in the 
symmetry of the hand, the slim but graceful body, and 
the smoothness of the well defined visage. 

Many were the passers-by of this sad spectacle, 
heedless of the awful wreck it betokened. But who in 
this ever ongoing tide, this busy, exacting, nether world 
can lend a listening ear to the broad and various 
measure of earth’s deep, accentuated woe? 

The woman had been seated for some time when a 
young gentleman — perhaps more tender of heart than 
common — found it at least within his curiosity to drop 
a second look upon her as he passed ; and doing so, he 
ventured farther — then inquired, “Madam, can I 
render you assistance? ” 

For a moment there was no response. He looked 
again, the eyes indicated stupor. Again he repeated 
the question. He was answered. 

The head raising slowly from off the breast ; the 
dark locks falling back disclosing the pale forehead, a 
cold and lifeless tear fell from her uplifted eyes. 

What a world of meaning there is in a tear! that 
solemn precipitation of the inner state. 


74 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


As the eyes fell slowly upon the speaker he felt the 
presence of the deep mystery in their wonderful depths. 
Again addressing her he looked thoughtfully into her 
face — for there was an irresistible something in that 
visage which held him fast — and from lips white and 
trembling came a disconsolate moan, the unburdening 
of a soul. Lifelessly shaking her head and casting 
upon the stranger her eyes, in whose brown depths 
spake an unutterable gloom ; she answered, ‘“Alas I 
dear sir, none can help me!” 

The stranger walked thoughtfully away. 

As it has been anticipated, this woman and child 
were the same to whom we last bade adieu. 

The aged lady in whose care the negress had 
placed her, for a slight compensation, had consigned 
to her a small room in her miserable hut. For the 
first time unlacing the silk cgrds of her money bag 
she found it to contain just five dollars in silver. For 
three days she had observed the council of the re- 
markable stranger who had given her this handsome 
sum. She accepted her lot among the ragged 
strangers, whose novel ways and furious looks at first 
bred in her a sense of fear. 

She was becoming slightly accustomed to them — 
harboring thoughts of comparative security, as ghost- 
like she made her errands to the street by night. 

But alas! The demon who seemed forever lurking 
at her heels she again met — another terrible experi- 
ence, the characteristics of which must for the mo- 
ment be left to the imagination. 

Penniless she sought refuge. She was unsuc- 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


75 


cessful, and the fifth night following found her rest- 
ing her weary body upon a deserted stoop, as had 
done the little stranger for whom she had dropped a 
tear a few nights previous. 

For two days she had been without food or a bed. 
The latter she might have endured, as did thousands 
of others, but the pains of starvation finally set in. She 
saw her child nursing pettishly and weeping at a 
milkless breast! This drove her toward madness. 
She made frantic efforts to find the negress, but all in 
vain. 

Throughout the greater part of the past night she 
had been hunting the stranger who had given her the 
purse ; but alas, the delirium, which, like a firey tide 
was sweeping her away, body and soul, had left in her 
memory but slight traces of the inscription of the seal 
which had been attached to the money bag. The 
word “Jerome” was all that in her memory remained. 

When the morning which we have described had 
fully arrived, and the streets were again filled with 
thronging people, and the world had awakened to the 
duties of a new day, this desolate mother and child 
were pointed out by a merchant, and he said to a 
police standing by: “It appears that you have a duty 
on yon corner.” 

The police was soon at the woman’s side, and 
taking her by the arm said: “Come, hasten on; we 
have no use for you here! Come, begone!” 

Obedient to the summons she slowly arose and 
looked into the officer’s face. In her visage — oh, 
awful combination of human distress — wonder, inno- 
cence, fear, hunger, dispair! 


76 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


She gave one look, then slowly turned away. 

* * * * * * * 

I paused. 

All this time I was aware of Rose Cimarron’s 
presence, albeit my eyes had been fixed on vacancy 
there before me, where the mystery of Louise Pollard 
seemed to unroll like a huge scroll. I closed. There 
was a profound silence. I turned and looked upon 
Rose. Her face was flushed and her eyes were 
slightly bedimed with mist. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

I RKCOGNIZK THIS WOMAN. 

|V| OW in the afternoon of the same day in the morn- 
* ^ ing of which we take leave of the weary crea- 
ture and her child at Bare Market there occurred the 
following episode: 

An aged man and a young gentleman had been 
standing for some time before a cottage on Courtland 
street, near Sedgwick. The young man was not past 
twenty-two. The former was leaning confidently 
against a gate post. He had been listening for some 
time to a discourse from the younger who stood in the 
middle of the walk gesticulating at intervals, to em- 
phasize his remarks, with a small morocco case of sur- 
gical instruments. 

The old gentleman’s hat had for some time been 
removed from his head, displaying a tumbled mat of 
gray locks as he stood there refreshing himself in the 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


77 


cooling- shadow of a posing- cloud. Presently they 
both entered the grassy yard and sat down in the shade 
of the house. 

In a few moments a young- girl came down a walk 
from the rear of the house. In her hand she held a 
pink and also the small bud of a rose which she by 
times delicately raised to enjoy the odor. Upon 
observing the young man she halted for a moment in 
the bright sunlight. “ Margaret, this is Doctor 
North, ” remarked the old gentleman. ‘ ‘ Oh, Margar- 
et and I are acquainted,” answered the young man, 
turning and bowing to the girl. Margaret was not 
past fourteen. “I intended this pink for you, grand- 
father.” — “That’s thoughtful my child,” answered 
the old gentleman, stroking the soft, golden fleece 
which fell about the girl’s shoulders. “And that 
rose bud — ?” began the young man. “For you,” 
answered Margaret, as her eyes glimmered with 
happiness. Acknowledging this tender token he 
pinned the rosebud to the lappel of his coat. 

The previous conversation had certainly been of a 
secret character, for the tone of their voices sometime 
sank to a whisper. However they had proceeded some 
time, when, unobserved by them, there appeared some 
distance away a woman who with slow and nervous 
steps finally approached the yard. 

She was the same who thus far has been the spec- 
tre of this narrative. 

Since the moment when in the morning she had 
been driven away from Bare Market, she had been 
wandering. Since that hour there had been but 


78 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


slight change in her personal aspect ; unless it was 
that the dark circles under her eyes had grown more 
defined, and the eyes themselves had grown more hol- 
low-awful wretchedness! What malediction of fate 
so dark were ever cast upon the brow of mother! For 
the last few hours her visage had begun to assume a 
certain indescribable, ghastly fierceness. Hunger, 
fear, dispair, madness, was written there. 

For a moment she stood looking over the picket 
fence, then mechanically moved on. Again she 
turned and looked squarely into the faces of the two 
men in the yard. 

“She is insane. I met her this morning at Bare 
Market,” remarked the young man. 

“Doctor!” exclaimed the old man arising with 
marked emotion, “she is the same of whom I spake 
but a few moments ago.” 

The woman had not changed her last position. In 
her arms she mechanically held her child, unconscious 
however that the sun was beating into its unpro- 
tected face. 

It was evident from the movement of her lips that 
she was addressing them. The old man drew closer, 
and the woman weakly spoke, while her eyes seemed 
to fix themselves with a meaningless glare. “I am 
seeking — alas, I forget. I have been directed into this 
vicinity. Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Jer- 
ome — they say he is a smith? ” 

“Ah! poor woman,” exclaimed the old man, “surely 
there is a providence, else why this strange meeting? 
I am he whom you seek.” The woman’s eyes alighted 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 79 

with hope as she leaned against the fence to support 
herself. 

“You are he? Then there is a God! Last night 
I appealed to him, half in faith and half in doubt, for 
my misfortune has long since shattered that belief 
taught me when a child. Oh pity me and my wretched 
child! ” 

“Margaret,” exclaimed Mr. Jerome to his grand- 
child who was instantly by his side — “ show the wo- 
man and child into the house.” Margaret immedi- 
ately took the woman timidly by the hand and looking 
her tenderly in the eyes she led her through the gate 
and down the walk. 

“Come in, Doctor,” remarked the old man to his 
young friend, with a knowing glance in his eyes. 

The house was a small and unassuming cot, 
scarcely known to the noisome world. It stood not 
far from where in these latter days runs the boisterous 
cars upon their elevated way. Here lived Gillespie B. 
Jerome, a smith, whose chief occupation was the 
building of clocks and models, all of which in his day 
was performed by hand. The vast machine industry 
which has sprung up since those times has absorbed 
the art he followed, and done away with hand labor, 
that day there was an extensive business in hand labor 
clock making, which was the occupation of skillful 
mechanics, pursuing their calling by the slow plod- 
ding methods of their times. The gearings of clocks 
were then mostly cut from hard wood instead of from 
brass, as in these times; the only machinery used in a 
majority of cases being a foot power lathe. 


80 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


It was the practice of smith Jerome to make jour- 
neys twice or thrice a year disposing- of his clocks in 
the many villag-es and towns along- the Hudson. 
Sometimes he carried his journeys as far as Boston. 

It was on a return from a journey of like character 
that he chanced to overtake the woman and child, 
whose strang-e conduct it is seen was not an entire en- 
igma to him. 

In this cot smith Jerome had lived for many 
years. He was now an aged man, passed seventy, 
though in his veins coursed a stream, pulsing with 
a vitality not common to men of his years. In his old 
age he had but one companion, a little grand daugh- 
ter. This child was an orphan. Her mother, the 
only child of Mr. Jerome, had died young; and her 
father had lost his life at sea. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THK CRISIS. 

'"THE more than ordinary life of Father Jerome — for 
1 this was the nickname reverence had paid the 
smith — and the manner in which his life and that of 
Margaret’s blends with the fate of Louise Pollard, 
commands special attention. 

Father Jerome had passed a life filled with no tri- 
vial experience. In his youth he was of the proper age 
to catch that patriotic fire which swept the Atlantic 
Colonies, and finally drove British dominion from 
the infuriated land of America. At eighteen he found 
himself a fifer boy under Washington. Two years 


81 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

later, he had been given a captainship, and at the 
close of the eight years’ Struggle he found himself 
commanding a regiment. In the second war with 
Great Britain, he again fell into ranks and fought to 
the close. During the interval between the close of 
the Revolution and the reopening of hostilities which 
ushered in “the war of 1812,” he had followed his 
calling as a clock-smith in the true and original mean- 
ing of that phrase. Being endowed with a careful 
nature he had reaped in time a handsome fortune. 
But this was now gone. A friend had ensnared him. 

He had placed his name upon a bond. The friend 
had absconded and Father Jerome was called upon to 
settle. The financial strain had ruined him ; yes it 
had more than ruined him. It had left him several 
thousand dollars in debt. Ten years had since elapsed. 

Those were the days of persecution for debt. Debt- 
ors’ prisons were the shame of every State throughout 
the land. They were an appendage of that medieval 
darkness heretofore not completely swept away by the 
preceding social revolutions — an inheritance from the 
diseased tissues of the mother country which to eradi- 
cate took years, and not without vast suffering to 
thousands whose paltry rags had been caught in the 
wheels of the law. 

When the news first came to Father Jerome’s ears, 
that he would be called upon to make good the loss 
caused by his supposed friend’s fraud it was a severe 
shock, for he had just reached the sixtieth round of 
his years. 

Father Jerome knew that the law had no reverence 


82 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

for age, and more than this, he felt the financial re- 
sponsibility which the debt inspired. He immediately 
sold all unnecessary property ; withdrew himself into 
the cot which we find him occupying and began to 
fortify against the perils of debt and the penalty of 
poverty. The old rust-covered tools which his youth- 
ful hands had polished with toil and with which he 
had gained the greater part of his former wealth were 
again brought forth, and those hands which were now 
bent with age and that face in whose wrinkles were 
the indentures of sixty years bent again over the bench. 
What a falling off of friends there is at such a time! 
So had it been with Father Jerome. None knew him 
in humble circumstances who had courted him in 
affluence. 

Day by day, week by week for the space of ten 
years now had the unbroken clink of his hammer been 
heard. He had pinched and starved, he had grown 
gray, he was standing upon the verge'*; yet did the 
debt encompass him as a premature shroud. 

The golden dreams which he had shaped for his 
grand-daughter had vanished with the fortune. 

Time had swiftly flown. Father Jerome had finally 
approached a precipice over which he must leap or into 
which he must descend. He must pay the debt or go 
to jail. During the past ten years of trial he had man- 
aged to retain the legal title to his old home, but the 
bulk of the debt was yet unpaid. In these years he 
had also grown gray. 

Margaret had for several years assumed the entire 
duties of the household. Indeed she was jealous of 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


83 


her task, understanding- most wisely her responsibility. 
Responsibility makes strength. However, although 
her grandfather had always imparted to her the many 
affairs of his business, yet had he studiously avoided 
giving her any intelligence concerning the threatening 
nature of the debt, which for years had been slowly 
swallowing him. He would not inflict that upon her 
mind which to him had been a painful burden. But 
the time was fast approaching when he found it impos- 
sible to hide his pain. Circumstances were fast draw- 
ing to an issue when it would be impossible to avoid 
the revelation. 

As to the stranger who had suddenly appeared 
within the threshold, she and her child could be of 
little incumbrance ; and the generous heart of Father 
Jerome opened wide the hospitality of his home to this 
suffering creature, nor apparently troubled his mind as 
to the cause of her grief. 

“Who is Louise, father? ” asked Margaret one day 
in the work shop. 

The old man looked up from his task, took his 
spectacles from his eyes, and with gravity replied — 
“ Her affliction, my child, is too deep for your young 
mind to comprehend. Though it is wrong, my child, to 
deny your question, I must on this occasion, for the 
love you have conceived for this stranger would not 
permit me to reveal this secret.” 

Many times previous had father Jerome enjoined 
the strictest silence upon this topic, and Margaret had 
learned the affairs of the stranger were not for the 
world to know. 


84 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


Several weeks passed by. The woman had kept the 
house and it was believed by her that she was now 
safe beyond question. But there was a crisis approach- 
ing the affairs of Father Jerome’s household. 

It had been noticed by Louise, and also by Margaret, 
that Father Jerome had of late grown remarkably 
taciturn. He was seen to sit for hours in the evening 
time quietly buried in meditation, during which times 
no laugh of Margaret or passing remark aroused 
him. 

When one evening he had sat for some time Mar- 
garet said: “What makes you so sad, Grandpa?” 
Father Jerome did not answer. After a time Louise 
retired with her child for the night. Margaret again 
approached her grandfather, and smoothing his gray 
locks gently from his brow she began — “ Grandfather, 
I feel that I am quite old enough to share some of 
your thoughts ; some of your secrets. I know there is 
something painful in your mind, Grandfather, which 
you would tell me if you did not fear that it would 
affect me. But I am sure your silence is more painful 
to me than could be the story of your trouble, for then 
I could share it with you, while now I only know that 
your mind is troubled and can offer no help. Tell me 
Grandfather, what troubles you?” There was a long 
silence. “I know that you are suffering, but what 
can I do? And Louise, Grandfather, has it anything 
to do with her? Where is this strange woman from? 
Who is she? There is a cloud coming over the whole 
house since she came. She is so sweet and yet so sad. 
I can’t think she can be the cause of it, and yet it is 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 85 

all so strange. I wept to-day Grandfather, when I 
thought how badly you must feel to continue so long 
in silence.” 

“ My little Margaret,” began Father Jerome, softly 
caressing Margaret on the hand, “you are plenty old 
enough to share all my thoughts, and it is not because 
that I thought I could not trust you, Margaret ; but I 
have held my tongue” — he sadly halted for a moment 
to reassure himself and hide his feelings, then 
finished — “Because, Margaret, your heart is tender, 
and you are my little daughter!” The old man’s voice 
quivered and a tear fell from his eye. Margaret stood 
for a moment in contemplation, for she was sorely 
affected, and her face flushed, while irresistible tears 
gushed from her eyes to hear that quiver in the voice 
and to see his tears, the first from those eyes she 
had ever witnessed. 

“Margaret, my daughter,” continued Father 
Jerome with resolution, “did you ever go hungry 
several days at any time in your life, my child? ” “ No, 
Grandfather,” responded the curious but affected girl. 
“But why do you ask? You have been with me all 
my life.” “No, my child, you never have; but I 
have, my child, and that makes me tremble when I 
think what possibly awaits my unsuspecting Margaret. 
When some days since I hinted of the debt, then past 
due, you could not appreciate the weight of my 
remark, perhaps I did not make it sufficiently plain, 
but, my child, it is all over.” Father Jerome was 
visibly trembling. “Margaret, my child, come close 
to me.” Looking into her face with a sad, confiding 


86 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

expression he finished — “ Margaret, I am getting old. 
Did you ever think what it were best to do if some day 
you were suddenly left alone? ” 

How distant from youth is the thought of death! 
Yet how terrible is its realization when once fully con- 
ceived! Margaret had never stood face to face with 
this dark possibility before ; and when father Jerome 
had fully spoken , for a moment she was completely 
overwhelmed, and she burst in tears. 

The debt, of which we have spoken, had finally 
taken full possession of Father Jerome , for he was old. 
His penury had been known to the world so long that 
friendship had dwindled to a handful of acquaintances, 
and they, the old man knew, were powerless in the 
face of that dread enemy of the poor of his day, 
the statutes of debt and the 6 Old Provost,” that 
debtor’s prison, whose merciless walls had closed 
a thousand times upon more reverend hairs than his. 

For hours together he was noted by night to walk 
the floor, rejecting that balm of age, sleep, for it had 
fled him. One night, a few weeks after the arrival of 
Louise, the aged debtor was seated in the great chair 
wherein at evening time he frequently betook himself; 
and where he was prone to sit musing for hours, toss- 
ing in the hands of thought those memories of life 
which so frequent the dreams of age. Something had 
sealed his senses. From him the present had fled, the 
past alone occupied him. The last touch of the hand 
of his little grand-daughter had left the whitened 
shreds of age gently tossed upon his brow. His eyes 
were fixed upon a small cabinet in the corner. Across 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. &7 

the room fell his shadow. He was alone with his 
revery. He unconsciously drew near to the little cabi- 
net and began manuvering with its drawers, and the 
many small articles which they contained, for each 
ribbon and thread, each petty article, had for him an * 
awakening- power and told its little story. As he 
passed from drawer to drawer and casually caressed 
each tiny piece, one by one did the days of other years 
awaken. Back over the vale of years he went and in 
his mind arose pictures long- covered with the dust of 
memory. 

Revery affords pleasure when the mind is secure 
and at rest ; but to have the tide of memory come 
rushing- back upon us, falling- with a roar at our feet, 
is not pleasant, when upon the reef of calamity sits 
the mind ; and tossed 'are the thoughts into the dark- 
ning- billows of dejection. 

At times Father Jerome would start, then fall back 
into his chair ; close his eyes and shudder. Once a 
tear — that of ag-e and manhood the bitterest, struggled 
slowly from out his eyes. 

How many stories came wailing- to him from out 
that little cabinet which had been associated with his 
long- life, can never be known. Sadly entranced was 
he, this aged mariner upon the beach of time. For 
those waters of life’s ocean which should be blest with 
floods of light when age reviews the past, and with 
prophetic eyes gleans into the future, were tossed with 
an oncoming tempest. 

At intervals, forgetting the present, he sadly 
smiled; for across his mind had flown a recollection of 


88 The Mystery of Louise Poiiard. 

sweeter days, and before him again stood an angelic 
face. For she who had been dead, many years, visited 
his gloomy dreams, driving away sorrow as sunshine 
breaks by times the intervening clouds. But suddenly 
' again would the light darken into gloom, for the tide 
which was arising about him alternately touched and 
receded with its admonishing spray. 

So abstracted was he at this moment, that the deep 
rumbling of an approaching storm had not summoned 
his senses from their dreary contemplation. Suddenly 
from out the pitchy darkness boomed a peal of thunder 
and he arose and looked into the night. A flash of 
lightning lighted up the street. 

For an hour, a hurricane, vaulting up out of the sea, 
had swiftly approached. A violent tempest of wind 
was then sweeping the southern portion of the city. 
Out at sea had burst the clouds, which by the flash of 
the lightning shone in great width along the sky. 
So incessant was the lightning, that the otherwise 
dark streets shone by times like day. The old man 
arose and stood at the window. He heard with aston- 
ishment the uncommon crushing of the wind as it 
bent the trees and whistled through the shrubbery, 
tossing thick clouds of yet unsprinkled dust on high. 
Suddenly a few rain drops fell with force against the 
window, then with a rush preceded by a flash of light- 
ning, set in the watery tempest. 

Father Jerome resumed his seat. In the tempest 
of the elements he heard the tempest of his soul, tell- 
ing of his long life of vain labor, and the gloomy for- 
bodings of the debtors’ prison. He sat there brooding 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 89 

* 

for a long time. Suddenly in the midst of the tempest 
there was heard a rap at the door! The old man hesi- 
tated. He could not believe his senses. He consulted 
the clock and it stood at 11:10. He waited but half 
inclined to obey the summons. 

Suddenly there was another rap ; this time louder 
than before! The rain was dashing in torrents against 
the window and there was heard by times the thunder 
rolling among the great clouds. 

He arose and slowly opened the door slightly, for 
the rain dashed against the casement and into his 
face. He then inquired, “ What is wanted? Come in.” 

In the midst of a tempest people unconsciously 
speak high. The answer to Father Jerome was pro- 
portioned to the deep disturbance outside. “ I desire 
to see you for a few moments,” was the answer. 
“Come in!” responded the old man. To his surprise 
four men entered instead of one. 

“You are giving shelter to a young woman and 
child whom we seek,” began the largest of the four. 
It was Minister Cunningham. 

“Gentlemen, I am at a loss to know what you 
mean,” answered the old man. Both voices were 
pitched high and resounded throughout the house. 
Suddenly two men grasped the arms of the old man, 
another drew a pistol , the fourth began binding 
him hand and foot. In vain did he shout for help; for 
his voice was drowned by the tempest. In a moment 
he was bound and gaged, lying upon the floor, writhing 
and gurgling inarticulate ravings. The noise had 
necessarily been loud, and the clatter of footsteps, 


00 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

now ascending’ the stairs to the upper part of the 
house, added to the internal hurricane. On the floor 
the body of the old man writhed and twisted in the cord 
which bound it. The muscles of the arms swelled and 
trembled in the struggle of a mysterious strength. The 
arteries of the neck filled like whipcords, while o’er 
the face, now congested with dark blood, tossed his 
white hair. 

Suddenly the screams of Margaret were heard 
from above. The body of the old man swelled with 
apparently superhuman force. The thong’s which 
bound the arms snapped in pieces, and the old man, 
with furious eyes arose like a demon. At one blow he 
felled an adversary who sought to hold him. Then 
taking- the g-ag - from out his mouth he started madly 
for the stair; crying’ in frenzied tones “My child! 
My child! ” 

He ascended the steps with remarkable swiftness 
fora man of his years. In a few moments he returned 
with Margaret in his arms and stood in the middle of the 
room madly clutching a large cane which he had 
picked up in his flight. 

For some time the search was continued by the 
intruders, during which the old man soothed his child 
and told her they meant no harm to her but that they 
had come to carry away Louise and her child. 

“Make for the street and overtake her! She has 
escaped! ” rang out a voice from above; and in less than 
it takes to tell it the intruders vanished from the house 
and with a rush in several directions were heard fast re- 
treating from the spot, soon followed by a closed car- 
riage in a swift trot. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


91 


CHAPTER X. 

SEVEN MEN. 

T ABYRINTHIAN mystery of the human heart!” 

^ meditated Rose Cimarron — “ well termed by the 
Ancients the tabernacle of the soul. Upon the 
walls of its wonderful corridors is to be found the 
picture writing's of life — the Eg-o, the human spirit.” 
Then raising- her eyes she continued: “In this epi- 
sode of Father Jerome, now referred to, there is a 
pag-e of history.” “Yes,” replied I, a sample of 
those unwritten pag-es which are the cement to the 
foundation and the mortise of the frame in the social 
structure of the human race.” — “Of which histor- 
ians tell us so little,” interrupted she, “for it would be 
impossible for them to compress within their volumes 
the deeds of that vast host, the plain people of com- 
mon-place life. History,” continued she, “is the 
picture writing's of life, on a grand scale. Philoso- 
phy ever teaches — would you be strong - forg-et not the 
past ; bow reverently before its teaching's ; stand with 
uncovered head in its solemn lig-ht! Nations are 
prosperous and mag-nanimous when they stand full in 
the lig-ht cast by those who have g-one before.” Then 
turning- suddenly — “This episode of Father Jerome 
to which you now refer, indicates that debts were not 
the sole cause of his impending- calamity!” — “No, he 
had also been inviting - trouble from another source. 
He had drawn down upon himself the bitterest con- 


92 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


ceivable political hatred. Political prejudice is the 
focal point for every human passion ; the point at 
which they intermingle, strike against each other, 
become heated — finally ignite and explode.” 

“The episode hints at something' of the mystery of 
Louise?” — “Not in the least! On the contrary it need 
never have been told had it not with other like inci- 
dents finally precipitated the calamity of Father 
Jerome. The tornado that wrecks a vessel upon the 
reefs sometimes founders another far out at sea; like- 
wise did the calamity of Father Jerome materially 
alter the future destiny of Louise Pollard. Had it 
been otherwise, her life mig-ht easily here have sunken 
out of sight. Deranged, mad, accursed, or a being 
stained with terrible crime whom the law with cat- 
like stealth had hunted — this only need have been the 
conclusion of all inquirers. Upon this very threshold 
might we now briefly set down the full course of her 
trouble, had all been serene in the life of Father Jer- 
ome.” 

“And his fate?” — “It was intended that Father 
Jerome should somewhat affect the lives of people yet 
to be; of other generations. Had it not been for 
his calamity this woman and child would here have 
sunken into oblivion — nor would people whom we 
have yet to meet have loved, thought and suffered.” — 
“By so slight a thread,” meditated Rose, “does the 
all-engrossing experience in each individual existence 
depend upon the deeds of preceding generations.” 
Then with animation she inquired: “If the strata- 
gem to entice Father Jerome within the borders of 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


93 


South Carolina had succeeeded what would have re- 
sulted ?” 

“Father Jerome would have been legally hanged!” 
‘ Why, impossible— appalling! No, it can’t be!” 

“True!” 

“Then let me know all.” 

******* 

Underlying Father Jerome’s cottage there was a 
basement — capacious, well drained and kept healthful 
and comfortable by the fires of a small stove which 
he sometimes used as a fofge. This basement was 
firmly walled in, having been cut from a solid ledge 
of lime-stone. At the rear was fashioned a doorway, 
which led to the open air. In front and rear there 
were grated windows provided with doors which 
closed from the inside. At one point a row of steps 
descended from an upstair closet which communicated 
with the interior of the cottage. This basement 
Father Jerome used as a workshop. Running across 
the full width there was fashioned a heavy work- 
bench, at all times promiscuously covered with vari- 
ous tools, files, hammers, saws, a hand vice, compasses, 
dividers, measures, a flat, polished, steel hammering- 
block, a large bench-vice, etc., etc., besides many 
delicate instruments unnameable. 

A large quantity of metal and wood, material 
from which he shaped his clocks and models, was also 
scattered about, and upon his bench at all times 
could be seen parts of clocks, etc., in process of com- 
pletion. To one end of this commodious bench was 
also fastened a foot-power lathe. 


94 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

In the center of the basement sat a writing* table upon 
which there was ink, paper and a supply of quill pens. 
By night this apartment was lighted by means of a col- 
lection of candles, appropriately adjusted about the 
room. In the day-time sufficient lig-ht came in through 
the grated windows over the bench and at the rear. 

But the most remarkable feature in this basement 
consisted of a case of printer’s types and a small hand- 
powerprinting- press of antiquated pattern. JL\ear this 
press lay a stock of blank paper, and promiscuously scat- 
tered about the floor lay printed matter , most likely 
the product of the little press. 

Bearing- in mind that althoug-h this episode which 
transpired several days after Louise Pollard’s escape, 
reveals positively nothing- concerning- her n^stery ; 
nevertheless at the risk of some tedium we shall 
attempt to discover by it how Father Jerome 
hastened upon himself the peril of the Old Provost — 
and we shall finally learn how he involuntarily came 
into possession of matter of the most profound con- 
cern to other interesting- people whom we have 
yet to meet. 

If the conversation between Father Jerome and 
the young- physician had been remarkable for its 
secretive silence, certainly the following- conversation 
is remarkable for its open candor. But this fact may 
be easily accountable from the further facts that the 
following- occurred in the basement just described and 
between the hours of ten and one o’clock at nig-ht. 
The basement was dimly- lig-hted by a number of 
candles fixed on wedg-es which had been driven into 


The Mystery ' of Louise Pollard. 


95 


the fissures of the natural wall at various points. 
For over two hours the little printing- press had been 
kept busy by two men, one turning it by hand and the 
other feeding it rapidly with sheets of paper, which, 
when released, displayed an array of printer’s ink, 
and which in very remarkable language showed that 
somebody had been indulging in very serious reflec- 
tions. 

Over a thousand sheets of this printed matter 
were stacked, upon one corner of the rectangular 
writing table. In the center of this table two candles 
were burning, which lighted up the countenance of 
five men who were seated about the table, busily 
folding and stamping the strange documents for the 
mails. 

Father Jerome was one of those five men. The 
sleeves of his cheap shirt, which was made of blue 
cotton fabric, were rolled back to the elbows, and the 
bosom and collar hung loosely open, displaying a 
broad, hairy chest and strong neck, the veins and , 
sinews of which were remarkably vigorous, when we 
consider the whitened locks of hair which hung in a 
rather disarranged mat from his scalp over his fore- 
head and temples. Although Father Jeroiqe’s eyes 
were blue and very large — betokening a mild nature — 
they were set quite deep in his head and beneath 
heavy brows ; and as the brows had a faculty of 
clinching together whilst the eyes fixed and gleamed 
upon the image which the mind momentarily held ; like 
the eye and brow of a determined swordsman they 
indicated the presence of mental energy and concen- 


96 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

tration of volition. The muscular machinery of his 
body, although now quite withered, was fastened to 
heavy bones, which indicated that the owner had 
at one time been endowed with extraordinary strength. 
When he spoke, his words came forth in deep sonorous 
tones, and as his feelings were capable of reaching a 
high emotional climax, with flushed face and gleam- 
ingeyes, Father Jerome had upon many public occa- 
sions displayed an eloquence, both to be admired and 
feared. It is more than likely that much of the mat- 
ter contained in these printed documents was directly 
or indirectly inspirations from his pen. 

In folding these documents there was a studied care 
in every instance to completely hide the title-page, 
which in large bold type read, “ The Revolutionist .” 

Steadily continued the process of preparing these 
documents for the mails, which consisted in folding 
and packing into bundles of one hundred and binding 
tightly with twine to which were attached tags bear- 
% ing various postal destinations located in various 
states. 

Greatly to the apparent delight of their associates, 
Father Jerome and a young man who sat at one corner 
of the table had for some time indulged in enthusiastic 
conversation. 

The young man was reclining with one elbow 
resting upon the table and the fingers of his uplifted 
hand completely buried in the dark mat of hair which 
clothed his head. His dark gray eyes were riveted 
upon Father Jerome, whilst by times he lifted his left 
hand and lightly trained his young mustache which 
thinly adorned his lip. 



a sample of those unwritten pages which are the cement to 

the foundatiOh and the mortise of the frame in the social structure of the 
human race. 






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The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 97 

“ Haste, is not the proper policy,” continued Father 
Jerome in argumentative style, addressing the young 
man. 

“No! Doctor North. I am satisfied with our pro- 
gress ; it is slow, but its strength shall be as those 
huge pines in the northern provinces of Mexico, those 
California giants of which Spanish legend speaks, 
and therefore prudence demands that we be not too 
open and bold. I regard it as impolitic to pursue so 
radical a course as }^ou outline. The government has 
already been called upon to stop the tide of our docu- 
ments through the mails. What if this be done? — and 
it is not an improbable thing to expect, considering 
the attitude of the present government. What is the 
cry of the Demigod of the South? Although the 
denunciations of Calhoun are not pleasing to the ears 
of Jackson he dislikes them because they are Calhoun, 
and would forward any scheme which he thought 
would secure him with the Democrats — for Presidents 
are but men.” 

“True,” replied the young man in a strong voice. 
“Yes, it is deplorable that moral reform must be so 
nurtured — like a weakling child! We are now but a 
handful. Having no political force we are in con- 
tempt. To enter within the borders of a slave state is 
death. We are called upon to obey the fugitive slave 
law — though obedience revolts our very conscience. 
Yet the duty is made inexorable. We erect a press 
for the propagation of our views. It is torn down and 
burned. We send out missionaries — they send them 
back in their shrouds. Five thousand dollars reward 


98 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


is offered for the apprehension of Garrison by a Geor- 
gia Governor — because he speaks the truth, and seeks 
to convince the heart through the brain! ” 

“ True enough,” replied Father Jerome, “ but mark 
this — look to it — our publications have now begun to 
awaken a spirit, which, when once fully evoked, can 
never be suppressed! There will come a time — I may 
not see it, but you will, young man — when our party 
will strike terror into the hearts of those who now 
despise it, and will astonish those and subdue them 
who coldly slight it.” The old man’s eyes sparkled 
from under his tufted brows, as he uttered this final 
remark. 

They were discussing the political horizon of their 
times. Andrew Jackson was then ending his first 
term as President of the United States. Calhoun, 
who two years later had led his State from the 
Union for the first time, was thundering against pro- 
tective tariff, while invoking by a species of political 
incantation the popular phantom of “State’s Rights.” 

“ Carnage! — a universal uprising, is entirely justi- 
fiable. Revolutions are healthy!” exclaimed the young 
man. 

“Have a care, Doctor,” muttered the old man, 
“President Jackson has finished a reproof upon the 
subject of radicalism. These hot words uttered in 
public would work your ruin.” 

Andrew Jackson, President of the United States, 
had threatened to hang Calhoun for his traitorous 
doctrines of secession. Notwithstanding, this great 
southerner precipitated the “ 1832 secession ” of South 
Carolina. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 99 

“True,” answered the younger, “ but in my breast 
I have a pent up indignation, which at times defies all 
rules of prudence ; and I am persuaded by such sense 
of injustice that I think more bitterly than I can 
speak. I admire the fire of the roving harnessmaker.” 

It is probable he referred to the great fanatic of 
the times — but nevertheless, truly wonderful and good 
man — Benjamin Lundy. 

“Ah, now you recall some serious reflections,” 
exclaimed the old man, begining a low but fervent 
address to all in the room. “Gentlemen, I cannot 
help thinking our cause is much older than most peo- 
ple appreciate.” The two men at the press slowed 
down its movement and all hung upon Father 
Jerome’s words. “Humanity has had a few great 
hearts in every era, however so dark the popular con- 
science of the times. Every generation has its Roger 
Williams who weeps for humanity or goes into exile 
for a cherished principle. Such men, I believe, are 
arising in our own time. We cannot now point them 
out, gentlemen, but they who come after us will look 
upon these times and single out the columns that pro- 
ject above the horizon. These men are like the gen- 
erals of old who advanced to battle at the head of the 
fighting host. They appear in the front of the battle 
mingling with the smoke and carnage. They are not 
instantaneous products, for reform is slow. Therefore, 
I say our cause is not the growth of a day. Abolition 
is but a new name for an old idea, the inalienable 
rights of man. It is the old demand in new terms, of 
the liberty of universal man!” All eyes were upon 


100 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


Father Jerome as he continued. “Two years before 
the signing - of the Declaration of Independence the 
Quakers had organized the first abolition society. So 
faint by times has it been that people forgot of its 
existence. Slandered, libeled, bitterly ridiculed — forgot- 
ten! Yet, does it survive in the blush of increasing vigor. 
But such is the obloquy through which most reform 
has passed. Ours has passed that period, gentlemen, 
and to-day it has reached that height, from which, 
when once attained, political reforn never recedes!” 

The old man’s face lighting up with fervency he con- 
tinued: “I refer, gentlemen, to that state of elective 
affinity, peculiar to the growth of social morals, which 
invariably appears at a certain stage of their develop- 
ment — a social magnitization, which causes political 
principles, after perhaps years of probation, to sud- 
denly individualize within a single head, as by a stroke 
of divination. It is that stage of development, where 
the floating particles of moral truth, suddenly, as by 
a flash of lightning, precipitate the social elements 
into a torrent ; a condition of the ethical atmosphere, 
which containing a spark of the divine, rushes magic- 
ally into the breast of a single man, commanding his 
uttermost faculties. It is the hour of prophesy, elec- 
tric eloquence and inspiration, which have for their 
warranty the seal of heaven. That hour in America 
is near at hand! Observe the signs! There will come 
a prophet! ” 

The old man ceased. His small audience were 
earnest, common men — reflective, meditative, slightly 
visionary ; but such as have formed the masonry of 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 101 

nations and hold together the structures of all civili- 
zation. Father Jerome’s tones were low and strictly 
confined to his immediate auditors — deep, earnest, elo- 
quent. 

Prophetically he continued: “These are times 
filled with the foreshadowings of the oncoming 
revolution in sentiment which history says precedes 
the storm of war. These are the quickening times in 
the womb of public conscience, of that sentiment 
which may become vast as a moving sea. Human 
offerings are now being born ; a thousand bloody 
alters are now being reared, whose smoke shall ascend 
to the battle sky in a generation to come. American 
politics, deeply inoculated far back in colonial days 
by the virus of chattleism in man is now beginning 
to show those symptoms of disease which may shortly 
become a reigning and unconquerable epidemic. From 
the beginning of our government there has been a 
disease in the body politic. From this springs innumer- 
able other ills. At intervals of delerium there has 
been but one drug which offered anything like a cure 
to the stricken state. It is separation! But the cure, 
gentlemen, is far more severe than the fever.” Here 
Father Jerome dropped to a low monotone, rising 
gradually to prophetic energy. “ The climax must 
necessarily be reached sooner or later. I fear we 
needed a baptism of fire to purify the reeking state ; a 
deluge from the sky to wash out the sewerage ; a 
mighty electric shock to purify the atmosphere; and 
this — God defend us — nature has long been preparing 
in her secret and mysterions laboratory.” 


102 The Mystery of Louise Polldrd. 

He ceased. The man at the press stood like a 
statue, with glimmering eyes and fist clinched. This 
individual had said but brief words during' the entire 
evening-. The young man at the corner of the table 
buried his fing-ers more deeply into his dark hair. His 
gray eyes were fixed in meditation. After some silence 
the press again began to move and all was busy. 

These seven individuals continued their secret voca- 
tion far into the night; and when they had finished, 
some five thousand copies of “ The Revolutionist” was 
ready for the morning mails. And Father Jerome — 
Ah, shall we speak it? — had committed the final act 
which resulted in so enraging his political enemies 
that they immediately sent forth their numerous, legal 
grab-hooks by which this offender was to be brought 
before the bar of justice. Their first stratagem, as I 
have said, had failed them. Father Jerome must be 
silenced. “Money, stocks, bonds, the security of 
huge investments ” were threatened by such revolu- 
tionary spirits as his. From this particular hour 
Father Jerome’s liberty grew swiftly to a close. 

His financial distress was soon discovered, and 
instantly, was hurled upon his head, the curse of 
insolvency — quite terribly as effectual in silencing 
both tongue and pen, as death itself. 

Marvelous indeed may it seem that the action of 
so many people was necessary in order that the destiny 
of Louise Pollard should be fully accomplished. But 
had not Father Jerome thus invited disaster, he never 
again would have met Louise Pollard ; and had 
he never met her, she and her infant might have 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 103 

silently sank unobserved into the waters of the past, 
as many another unknown has done — nor could we 
have known of Rosetta’s love ; nor of Doctor North ; 
nor of Maurice Severgn. 


CHAPTER XI. 

AFFAIRE DU COEUR — THE MAELSTROM. 

1VTO experience of the heart can more quickly or 
1 ^ decisively awaken a man than the knowledge of 
the presence of an active and worthy rival. Such to 
me had become Henry Blakemore. Culture, refine- 
ment, wealth ; vines, whose interlacing leaves and 
tendrils ornament the snowy frieze of life’s temple ; 
without which, the most God-like monolith in human 
form, is chill, barren, desolate! — such were the attri- 
butes of this man. 

His unmistakable attentions toward Rose Cimarron 
since the hour of their first recognition, on that, to 
me, ever-memorable day in Central Park, had become 
all too pronounced for further passive endurance. 
Entirely careless of possible results, I had on that day 
innocently braved destiny for him — acted as the instru- 
ment of my future torture by calmly negotiating for 
him their friendly compact. 

One evening, when according to appointment, I 
had arrived at the home of Rose Cimarron, a servant 
met me in the vestibule, smiling and handing me a 
note, saying — “ Miss Cimarron is not at home.” 

Instantly flashed through my mind the picture of 


104 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

Harry Blakemore. Unmindful of the gaze of the ser- 
vant, a flame of emotion heretofore utterly foreign to 
me, leaped from my heart to my brain ; and whilst 
my face was burning, I tore open the envelope and 
scaned the lines. 

“ Dkar C : Though much regretting it, I will 

take the liberty to defer our meeting till to-morrow 
evening, when you will not fail to come prepared to 
impart so much of “The Mystery” as the time and 
your inclination will then permit. Knowing your 
generosity, I take this liberty. 

“This evening I accompany Harry to the theatre, 
where we will enjoy Sardou’s latest. Thanking you 
for this most chivalrous concession. Rose.” 

I clutched the folds of the note and thrust it into 
my vest , said “ good day,” and walked away. 

“Chivalrous concession — to the theatre! Harry! 
the devil!” muttered I as the flames swept over my 
face and perspiration burst from my forehead. My 
feelings were never more painful than then — never 
more bitter! I would fain have thrust them from me, 
but they would not go. 

I went to my home ; sat down in my easy chair. 
The silence of the walls of my room seemed to mock 
me. I did not know why, but immediately the ghostly 
visions, which the actor’s art renders tangible in the 
play of Macbeth, paraded themselves before me, and 
again and again I heard that hollow, terrible voice, 
“No more— Sleep, no more!” — rolling along, rever- 
berating through the halls and corridors of my 
imagination. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 105 

Foolish, strange but irresistible passion! I rushed 
from the house. Arriving at the box-office, I purchased 
my ticket and soon lost myself in the huge throng of 
the theatre. The curtain had arisen for the third act 
before I could trust myself to look about me. And 
yet, the presence of those eyes which I was now 
beginning to feel morally certain had been looking 
upon me, was painful the while for my mute and 
burning heart. When at last I cast my eyes about me, 
instantly as though under supernatural direction, they 
fell upon Rose Cimarron and Henry Blakemore. They 
occupied a box at the left of the stage. Never in all 
my previous life had I experienced such horrible emo- 
tions toward any man as did I at that moment toward 
my rival. It turned the play itself into a poisoned 
chalice held to my lips by the united hands of 
demonds. The triumphant laugh of the heroine, the 
foolish jealousy of the despairing lover swept down 
upon me like a flight of barbed arrows. 

When the play had ended, and the throng were 
pushing along the walk from the theatre, suddenly I 
heard a familiar voice. I turned. There stood Rose 
with one foot upon the step of a cab, the door of which 
was open. She smiled, and gently nodded her head, 
then disappeared within. To me the clash of the door 
sounded like the crash of a convent gate. Never more 
perfect did Beauty array herself in Parian marble than 
did the grace of Rose Cimarron, a vision of whom 
then leaped into life before my mind. 

Ah, fate of the human heart! I wandered home — 
seated myself as usual in my easy chair with my feet 


106 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


resting on a Turkish foot-stool, and in the glare of 
the gas light sat dreaming of Rose Cimarron and 
wrestling with my emotions. 

Deep at the midnight hour, finally I arose ; looked 
into the mirror. My face was pale. “Fool!” 
gasped I — for it seemed to be written across my fore- 
head — “ What right have I thus to claim such title to 
her — to grasp her even in imagination to my heart? ” 
Art, beauty, luxury, wealth — without those there could 
be no home thought I, for such as she. Never did I 
feel the bitterness of my own lot till then. Instantly 
with clinched fist, crystalized throughout my frame a 
herculean resolve. 

The interest that Rose had displayed in the narra- 
tive of Louise Pollard, was one of more than ordinary 
character. Of this I became doubly assured, on the 
next evening, when upon her solicitation, I proceeded. 

Let us not lift the veil which hides from the world 
the history of the old debtors’ prison of New York. 
The detail if revealed, if but half set down, would fur- 
nish material for a volume in itself. Its victims have 
been legion. We shall not resuscitate the gloomy 
shades which lurk about this spot ; nor ask of the 
past to yield up its dreadful legends. Let us drop it 
all in the briefest possible space. 

The Provost borrowed its name from a certain part 
it had performed in the drama of the American Revo- 
lution. During those bloody days it was used by the 
British as a prison for patriots, and the uncommon 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 107 

brutality of one Cunningham, a Provost Marshal, who 
tyranized over the luckless prisoners, left it a legacy in 
the shape of a nickname, it ever after being called the 
“Old Provost.” Up to 1832, the year in which its 
destiny as a goal for debtors closed, it had been used 
as a police-court and a prison for unfortunate humanity 
whose rags had been caught in the wheels of the law 
of debt. 

When the poor Siberian peasant on the banks of the 
River Lena found the remains of the mammoth he 
shrank in terror from the spot. So likewise the student of 
history is shocked when before his eyes stalk by times 
those monstrosities of the law which once walked 
among men under the name of Justice. “ If a person 
be taken in execution and lies in prison for debt he is 
not to be provided with meat, drink or clothes, but he 
must live on his own and on the charity of others ; 
and if no man will relieve him let him die in the name 
of God says the law, and so sa} r I.” These are words 
from the pen of an old English law giver. 

True the law of debt was slightly relaxed of its 
ancient rigour during the period we now portray, but 
enough of it remained tcT chill the victim into horror, 
for then it sometimes meant imprisonment for life! 
From a legal writer in the times of Father Jerome we 
learn by the common law that the creditor after first 
having stripped the debtor of his property by a “ fiere 
facias ” might if the claim remained unsatisfied throw 
him into prison and keep him there for life — unless he 
found means to discharge the obligation. His body 
was held as satisfaction of the debt. Though by the 


m 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

Lord’s act, passed on the 32d year of the reign of 
George II., upon which the insolvent laws of New 
York were founded, the debtor might be relieved 
from imprisonment upon surrendering all his effects 
to his creditors unless the latter consented to pay two 
and a six pence a day for his maintenance. 

Father Jerome writhed and struggled as best the 
debtor could in his day, but in the maelstrom of 
bankruptcy Sank swiftly all his earthly store, whilst 
in the unquenchable jaws of his political enemies who 
had precipitated this calamity was his body fastened 
as in a vice. For they could well afford to pay two 
and a sixpence a day for that which so silenced his 
tongue and pen. 

But let us rush to the issue of Father Jerome’s 
case and not stop to recount the painful details of dis- 
aster which suddenly one day swept down upon him 
like a cloud of sand upon the desert-traveling Bedouin 
covering himself, his home and the light of his age, 
little Margaret, in the darkness of utter despair. 

For a great number of years Father Jerome had 
paid ruinous interest on a heavy mortgage. By this 
slavery he had kept his roof above his head and a little 
hope in his heart. He had thus far also appeased the 
hunger of two judgment creditors by judicious small 
payments from time to time. This had preserved him 
the possession of his household effects and his bench 
and tools. 

One day the mortgage changed hands, and directly 
in as brief a space of time as it took to walk from the 
recorder’s office to the little cottage, a knock was 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 109 

heard at the door. As was the custom, Margaret in- 
nocently escorted the stranger into the presence of 
Father Jerome, who was then toiling at his bench in 
the basement. The stranger was seated. After some 
time Father Jerome turned slowly on his stool, took 
from his pocket a dusty handkerchief and first wiping 
the perspiration from his brow began mechanically 
cleaning his glasses, while calmly awaiting the 
business of the gentleman. 

The stranger arose — “Your name is Gillespie 
B. Jerome?” — “It is,” answered Father Jerome, 
slightly perplexed. The stranger drew a paper from 
his pocket upon which appeared a seal and an amount 
of printed and written matter. This was rather 
remarkable. Father Jerome did not move ; he in- 
stantly apprehended all ; he became fixed as a statue 
of bronze. His grand-child was also spell-bound. She 
stood upon the last step of the stairs. Her eyes were 
riveted upon the intruder and the fingers of her left 
hand were unconsciously pressed against her silent 
Ups in apprehensive fear. 

The stranger immediately began to read the docu- 
ment aloud'. Instantly Margaret’s eyes turned to 
Father Jerome. His face had become pale, and the 
fingers of one hand were seen nervously twitching. 
The reading had proceeded some lines, and Father 
Jerome had not breathed since from the first word. 
Presently Margaret perceived large drops of sweat 
forming upon her grandfather’s brow, mysteriously 
clinging there like heavy dew on cold marble. Father 
Jerome was being served with legal notice of fore* 
closure. 


110 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

When the officer finished, his listener gasped for 
breath but did not move. The officer then handed 
him a copy of the paper ; then coolly lighting his 
cigar said “good day,” and retired from the house. 
This paper briefly informed Father Jerome that he 
was homeless. This was not all: In less than 
twenty-four hours from that moment his household 
effects were seized, instantly to be followed by seizure 
of his bench and work-tools, together with the little 
press and the case of type. 

This was not the end. Father Jerome knew it. 
The wrath of unsatisfied creditors gathered force by the 
minute, like a pack of disappointed wolves that have 
come late and hungry upon a victim entirely ravished 
of its flesh, savagely tossing the polished bones about 
the earth. Slowly the grim shadow of the inevitable 
debtor’s jail arose in the mind of this old man. The 
realization of the prophetic dreams of a wakeful pil- 
low had finally come like the blast of the Simoon 
upon the Libian sands — like a hurricane upon the 
T ndian seas. 

Men at sixty seldom if ever recover from a financial 
wreck, for it is the vortex of life. 

Through the vista of ten years had Father Jerome 
watched this coming tempest. The shock was terrific. 
Storm-ridden for days, suddenly there was a dismem- 
bering of the ship and all went out in utter darkness. 
The horizons of the last ten years had hung heavy 
with tempest. At no point of the compass could he 
avoid its encircling clouds. One day there was a 
crash, a flame from a cloud, and Father Jerome knew 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. Ill 

he was resting- upon the giddy rim of a maelstrom. At 
seventy years, the Provost — my God! An ashy pale- 
ness spread over his face and his gray locks seemed to 
grow momentarily whiter. 

From the first shock he knew himself whirling, 
sinking, sinking-swiftly and more swiftly-down, down 
each day nearer the cavity, deep into utter gloom. Then 
succeeded a sudden darkness as if the sun had gone 
out forever — and it had for him. And there was a 
sound as of the rush of waters ; the disaster so long 
beaten back — so despairingly — had approached, and 
swiftly as speeds the wreckage in maddening, down- 
ward flight into the cavern of the sea, he felt all 
hope depart. 

These are times when the mind scatters and the 
nerves quiver, the heart stands still and the gasping 
wretch with pale face and uplifted palms silently 
appeals unto his God, who e’er he be. Father Jerome’s 
lips were firmly pressed. Stoic heroism! He made no 
murmur. He was led to prison. With him went little 
Margaret, from whose cheeks the color of life had 
fled ; into whose visage came blank despair. Through 
the long streets they were taken, their steps more 
dead than alive ; he a physical wreck, she a child, 
touched for the first time with the icy vapor of this 
woHd’s woe. 

Theirs was a dark cell, lighted only by the weak 
beams of a sperm candle. Near by was an aged cot. 
It had been in the Provost for years. In it had pined 
many a heart as sadly shattered as that of poor Mar- 
garet’s— many a head as hoary as that of Father Jer- 
ome’s. 


112 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A VISITOR FROM THE SOCIETY OF THE HUMANE. 

RATHER JEROME was among the last inmates 
* of the Old Provost, and if the records shed posi- 
tive light he was one among the debtors whose sad 
story finally awakened the voice of humanity and tore 
from the statute books of New York that law which 
made debt a crime. 

Owing to the youthfulness of Margaret she also 
became an inmate of the prison, and the pressing 
creditors were called on to furnish a small daily 
stipend for their existence. Yet Margaret, so womanly 
at her age, grasped the situation and set about to find 
employment. In a short time she found labor in a 
clasp-factory where buttons, hooks, clasps and buckles 
were made in wholesale quantity for the public. 

Time at the Old Provost slipped on into the fall, 
and the leaves of the great poplars which shed their 
shades about the park assumed the tints of October. A 
few weeks more and frost whitened the morning 
walks and proclaimed the approach of winter. 

It was in the latter part of October, or the begin- 
ning of November, and time at the Provost was 
beginning to tell upon the frame of Father Jerome. 
His iron constitution which for over seventy years had 
so faithfully served him was now breaking. His skin 
had become dried and lifeless, like parchment. His 
hair had become entirely white. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


113 


In the park walks about the Provost great shoals 
of leaves from the over-hanging poplars had gathered, 
and by times was felt in early morn or late at night 
the just perceptible touch of oncoming atmospheric 
change. It was about this time in the fall when 
Father Jerome’s case was reached by the court, but 
all the powers of man exerted in his behalf seemed 
only to bury him deeper. His official discharge from 
the army upon which he much depended to finally 
release him from prison could not be found. The 
determination of his creditors was fixed like adamant, 
and now the bolts seemed to close forever ; for the 
debt was large, and Father Jerome well knew no 
pitying hand would reach down into that cell to un- 
bind the fetters. Finally, after many weary months, 
the old man settled down to the monotony of prison 
life ; dreaming no more, as it is the wont of those 
hopelessly confined, of some miraculous deliverance. 
By times he grew pettish ; at early hours looked long- 
ingly for the child or listened for her footsteps upon 
the stair in the evening time. When he retired at 
night oft did he pray that he might pass quietly off 
and never again awaken to the morning sun ; but when 
his eyes would fall upon Margaret he would retract his 
feelings. 

Winter at the Provost was a most serious affair! 
Close up to the huge grate in the big room, where by 
times congregated the inmate debtors, drolling over 
many a winter’s tale, these unfortunates gathered to 
catch a ray of warmth from the weak flames which by 
times burned there. And now it was that the “ story 


114 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


of Wilkins,” a former inmate, was told over to 
sympathizing - listeners ; how for years he lived within 
those same walls until he finally died and was taken 
to the potter’s field. Indeed many were they whose 
footsteps could be traced from the Provost to that 
desolate spot. Ruminating upon the ills of earth, and 
philosophizing upon the problems of life in general, 
the debtors at the Old Provost finished the winter of 
1830. 

By degrees the frost crept through the walls, the 
winter chill permeated every cranny, and winter had 
begun in earnest. At no time was there a plenty of 
coal at the gaol. And there were days in which the 
inmates crept about from cell to cell and down the 
corridors, binding their tattered garments tightly 
about their bodies to keep warm. 

One evening, perhaps it was then about the mid- 
dle of December, when all the debtors had retired 
from the large room and none but Father Jerome and 
his little grand-daughter remained, noticing an 
unusual glow upon her cheek, Father Jerome in- 
quired: “Margaret, my child, come here,” and 
placing his hand on her forehead he added: “Do 
you feel ill ? You have fever.” 

“I am well, father, but Oh, I am so drowsy and by 
times I feel like I was going to have a chill.” 

That night Margaret was taken sick. 

Now began a series of evils not yet anticipated by 
Father Jerome. The physician who cared for the pa- 
tients at the Bridewell and the Provost was sum- 
moned. Now it so happened that this august official 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 115 

could not come. He therefore sent his assistant, Dr. 
North, a young- man who had just received his degree 
as physician and surg-eon. Thoug-h there was 
nothing- remarkable in this, yet it is interesting since 
the fate of Margaret was destined to become some- 
what entwined with the life of this young man. 
When he arrived he directed that the child should be 
taken to warmer quarters, to the City Hospital, or to 
some kind friend, saying in the same breath that the 
child was threatened with typhoid fever. Father 
Jerome hesitated. Margaret also preferred to remain 
at the Provost. Finally a cot was prepared for her 
in the debtors’ big room, near the grate in which a 
slow coal fire was kept blazing all the time. 

Now began those long hours of watching, waiting 
and suffering by night and by day, known to many an 
experienced parent. But few who have passed 
through such sickness can measure the anxiety of 
this old grand-father — shut up between those prison 
walls watching by night and day over the stricken 
form of his little orphan patient. Hour upon hour 
came slowly dragging their weary lengths. Finally 
the day of all days, the most feared approached, and 
the delirium which was wrenching the sick girl’s 
brain culminated in its wildest flights and took on its 
most serious shadings. Vainly did Father Jerome 
strive to soothe her. “Is it not summertime, grand- 
father? I see vines and roses all over the walls!” 
“Yes, my child,” answered he, thinking to calm 
her. “Will they put her and all of us in the mad 
house, father ?” “ Who, my darling ?” 

* ‘ Louise I” 


116 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

“Oh no, Margaret, you must not be troubled.” 

Margaret’s eyes were staring wildly. At times 
they failed to recognize the aged face that bent above 
her. Her eyebrows would clinch together as if she 
struggled with mental pain, then with a quick start 
she would raise her head from the pillow, sinking 
slowly back again with an inarticulate murmur. 

The poorly lighted apartments of the Provost 
were always choked with night before the setting of 
the sun. In there the gloom of darkness began an 
hour earlier than to the outside world. On cloud- 
overcast days there was but a twilight within the 
gaol. 

It was on one of these evenings of darkness, after 
a day of whirling* December storms outside and hours 
filled with the broken sentences of the sick inside that 
a young woman clothed in warm but cheap garments, 
bespeaking her one of the poor, came to the Provost 
and inquired for Father Jerome. Over her face was 
drawn a veil, hiding completely her visage. Her 
hands were clothed in dark woolen mittens. She 
spoke briefly to the guard, neither inviting or respond- 
ing to conversation. 

In the big room on the second floor near the cot sat 
Father Jerome, his elbows upon his knees, his hands 
upon his chin, his body bent into a heap, his eyes 
gloating upon the fiery midgets that danced upon the 
small lumps of burning coal, his mind completely 
absorbed in revery. About his brow and temples fell 
his white hair, which gleamed in the dim light like 
threads of thinly spun silver. Upon his thoughtful face 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 117 

were written the deep indentures of age. Margaret 
had fallen asleep. Upon her golden hair, which hung 
over the pillow and the half revealed face, trembled 
the ghastly beams of the consuming coal of the grate. 
Her breathing was regular. Her lips were beautifully 
closed, and there was a momentary calm upon her 
face. The old man gently touched her brow with 
his palm. The pulse of fever was there but not so in- 
tense as it had been through the day. 

Outside whirled and chattered the winter storm. 
The casements chafed with the hard balls of fine snow. 
The cry of the blast was by times heard about the 
roof, and the trees in the park — now draped in snow 
or mailed in ice — hissed or groaned, whilst through 
their branches aloft gushed an evanescent winter gale. 
A weak candle of sperm shed a dim light in the room, 
but dispelled not the darkness, for its flame had with- 
ered into a puny spark upon the dying wick. 

Suddenly there was a noise below, like ascending 
footsteps. Father Jerome bent his attention toward 
the door, for it was a strange hour for visitors. Pres- 
ently without warning the bolts were drawn ; the 
huge door swung upon its hinges and a guard ushered 
in the young woman to whom we have referred. 

In a low voice the guard announced the presence of 
a stranger who had “ come from The Society of the 
Humane to visit the child.” 

The old man arose and offered the lady his chair 
near the cot. The guard closed the door behind him, 
and approached the couch of the child. 

The woman also came up until the beams of the 


118 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

grate, aided by the candle, lighted up her now half- 
disclosed face, showing distinctly the forehead and 
eyebrows. Father Jerome was endeavoring to glean 
a token of recognition from her face by the assistance 
of the small candle which he held in his hand. 

“We had not heard of the child’s sickness till yes- 
terday. How long has she been sick?” asked the 
woman. 

Father Jerome’s eyes were riveted upon the partially 
revealed face. Presently he looked at the guard, who 
was studying the woman, then quickly returning his 
eyes to the pale brow he quietly set the candle down 
upon the table, but did not answer. 

“This is her ninth day,” finally answered the 
guard, then added — “ Father Jerome is growing deaf.” 
The woman then set a small basket upon the table, 
and looking in the direction of the cot she remarked, 
with a significant glance at the face of Father Jerome 
— “ To-morrow give this to the child.” 

“When you need me, knock upon the door,” pres 
ently remarked the guard. “Thank you,” answered 
the woman, at the same time taking a seat near the 
cot. The guard retired and drew the bolts after him. 
The three were then entirely alone. Margaret was 
sleeping. Father Jerome had as yet made no remark. 
His guest slightly drew aside her hood and veil, at 
which Father Jerome started, while his eyes were still 
fixed upon her face. Presently he exclaimed: “ I had 
thought myself submerged beyond the reach of hujnan 
solicitude.” 

“Only death alone can accomplish this,” answered 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


119 


the woman with a sad smile. Father Jerome still 
hesitated, for the light was dim and his eyes were 
too weak to search out the lineaments of the 
woman’s face. Presently as if he had suddenly recalled 
the face of this woman he started, holding forth both 
his arms — “What, you here!” exclaimed he. The 
woman placed her fingers to her lips, looked about the 
room, then beckoned Father Jerome to a seat beside 
her. He obeyed. They were immediately engaged in 
a low conversation, which was certainly of the most 
secret nature, for the words were inaudible. By times 
the woman bent affectionately above the couch of little 
Margaret and softly touched her fevered brow. F inally 
the conversation ended, and they both sat thought- 
fully looking into the grate. Presently the woman 
raised a handkerchief to her eyes. She had been weep- 
ing. She arose, stooped and lightly kissed Margaret 
upon the brow, then approaching Father Jerome, who 
had also arisen, she grasped his feeble hand, murmur- 
ing in her tears, “May God bless and protect you, 
father, and restore the health of little Margaret” — 
saying, she slowly vanished into the shadow and 
knocked upon the door. After a time the door opened 
and she passed out. Father Jerome listened till the 
sound of her footsteps receded out of hearing. Then 
placing the candle upon the mantle he took his seat 
near the cot, where soon his eyes were again fastened 
upon the dreamy flames. 

Up the chimney the small curl of smoke ascended 
from the puny bed of burning coals. Again the rush 
of the gale outside, the hiss of the snow against the 


120 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

window, and the pulse of the flame causing' the shad- 
ows to recede and come upon the wall, reminded the 
debtor of his fate. Slowly the night wore on. 

Twice Margaret had spoken inarticulately in her 
sleep, and once she awakened with a start and cried. 
Father Jerome, kneeling by her side, caressed her 
brow, bent his head above her and stroking her hand 
reassured her ; frightening away those dragons which 
come to us in the night of delirium flapping their 
hideous wings above our heads. 

Thus did the hours proceed till the creak of vehicles 
passing in the street, and gray twilight falling through 
the prison bars denoted the approach of morning. In 
an hour more the red disk of the morning sun crept up 
from behind the intervening houses, arising sullenly 
in the sickly mist of silent frost, which far out above 
the waters of the ocean hung like a cloak. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

I HAVE SAID FAREWEEE.* 

6 6 Al\ ARGARET is looking better,” meditated 
* * * Father Jerome on the morning following the 
visit. Margaret had awakened slightly refreshed 
from her intermittent slumbers, and after bathing her 
face and hands and drying with clean linen she ate a 
delicate morsel. When the morning had advanced, 
Father Jerome brought to the sick couch the small 
basket left by the woman. “ Here my child,” said he, 
handing the basket to the surprised girl, who with 
hesitation finally held forth her hands and received 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


121 


the gift. “Take it,” added he; “a kind lady who 
came late last evening- left it for you. See Marg-aret, 
I have not disturbed it, for it was left entirely for 
you.” 

Marg-aret slowly beg-an to explore the interior of 
the tiny basket, and found it to contain a packag-e of 
pins, needles and thread, a neat linen handkerchief 
which was labeled “Father,” and lastly in the bottom 
a beautiful, soft white woolen hood and a pair of knit 
mittens, in each of \yhich there was deposited a silver 
half dollar. 

“Why father, who was she?” inquired Marg-aret. 

“A lady from the Society of the Humane,” answered 
Father Jerome. Marg-aret fell back on her pillow in 
quiet meditation. She knew all about this beautiful 
organization of charitable women whose deeds of 
mercy were famous among" the poor, but the answer in 
no wise satisfied her. 

The episode detailed in the previous chapter served 
to break the otherwise dreary monotony of the long- 
winter day. Time passed and finally the red sunset of 
evening- was at hand. “Grandfather, is this not 
Christmas Eve?” Inquired Marg-aret. “It is my 
child. Have you not heard a great jing-ling* of bells 
in the street ? There is a heavy snow and people are 
enjoying- it with their sleig-hs.” 

Tears came into Marg-aret’s eyes, and she sadly 
turned on her pillow, but catching- sig-ht of the beau- 
tiful white hood in the basket which Father Jerome 
had placed near, she remarked: “ But we were not 
forg-otten, were we ? Do you think she will return 
this evening ?” 


122 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


“ I do Margaret.” 

“Father!” exclaimed she in a whisper. The old 
man came close. “I wonder where Louise is to- 
night?” 

“I believe she is safe, my child.” “ Could we not 
get the good woman who came last night to take this 
money to Louise? Perhaps we had better inform the 
Society of the Humane of Louise, father? ” 

“Poor Margaret!” soliloquized Father Jerome. 
“ God pity my child — shut up in this cell. God pity 
her! Must I see her die in this wretched den? And 
I cannot help her. And God pity poor Louise,” he 
exclaimed, pressing his temples with both hands in 
anguish. “ God pity my poor sick child! ” 

Going to one of the windows he looked out into 
the night and saw where the rising moon had turned 
the ice upon the trees into a mail of various colored 
crystal, coating the earth with the shades of silver. 
Far and wide from the busy streets came to his ears 
the jingle of bells from swiftly gliding sleighs, and 
voices, those of the happy world without, rang upon 
his senses till he sadly walked away. Presently 
there was a noise upon the stair and Father Jerome 
leaned forward from where he stood, listening with 
the silence of a child, for his visitor had promised to 
come again that evening. 

“ It is she! ” exclaimed Margaret, raising upon her 
trembling arm, and looking through the dark at the 
door faintly outlined by the flame of the grate. 

Father Jerome had just lighted a small candle at 
the grate and now stood holding it in his hand. Pres- 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 123 

ently the bolts in the door slid back and a voice 
announced, “A lady to see the sick child.” The door 
again closed and the visitor alone slowly approached 
through the shadows. 

“You must talk in a very low voice, my child,” 
whispered Father Jerome to Margaret who had raised 
her body, supporting herself on her elbow. The light 
from the grate gleamed upon Margaret’s beautiful 
golden hair and displayed her neck and breast as her 
sleeping-gown had slid gently back upon her shoulder. 
The woman was but a moment in reaching the couch. 
Stretching forth her arms she grasped Margaret to 
her, kissing her upon her forehead and eyes. “ Mar- 
garet, my sister, do not cry out. It is I!” murmured 
Louise Pollard. 

“Louise!” gasped Margaret, withdrawing in 
amazement. 

“ Yes, it is I.” 

There was a momentary silence. Tears were start- 
ing from Margaret’s eyes. “How glad we are to see 
you again! How did you find us? Did the good 
woman tell you of us?” cried Margaret. 

Clinging affectionately upon the woman’s neck, ‘ ‘Oh, 
Louise ! ” cried she, ‘ ‘How I have looked for you in every 
street, yes in all the byways ; how I have sought you 
at every hour , watched for you in the throngs, waited 
at the doors of churches and looked into every face, 
but could not find you!” Suddenly Louise glanced 
about the room — she was weeping — “Hush, my sweet 
Margaret! Do not speak loud! ” exclaimed she, tremb- 
ling ; hugging Margaret tightly to her throbbing 


124 The Mystery of Louise Pollard , 

breast, and covering her face with a rain of hot tears. 
“Ah, Margaret, I have seen you by times, but dared 
not speak. I have crept along by your side for many 
steps at a time, but dared not touch you. Once I saw 
you and I kissed your shawl, and I wept that I could 
not speak. Silence! silence, Margaret, for all the 
love you have for me, do not forget yourself — let every 
one speak low.” 

It was very evident to Father Jerome that some- 
thing had happened Louise, for her eyes were deliri- 
ously gleaming. 

“Come close father,” exclaimed she in a whisper. 
“Bury your gray head closer that none may hear. 
Hark to me ! I am safe, but my God ! I am certain 
that I am being watched, tracked, hunted like a beast 
of the forest. Oh, look upon me !” She held up 
her arms in pitiful appeal. “ Oh great God of Heaven, 
I have done no wrong ; and yet do not the mountains 
rest upon me ? I have not sinned, yet have I not been 
forced to crawl among the vermin ? Is not daylight 
denied me? Can I safely go forth in the streets? 
No! No! Come closer, father, we may be overheard. I 
am accustomed to breathing my words close into the 
ear of mutual misery. Come close! These walls have 
ears. Hark! is there no one at the door?” Their 
three faces were very close together. Louise whispered 
very low. ‘ ‘ I have reason to believe that I was tracked 
fully half way to the prison.” Suddenly, with a cer- 
tain, fatal, indescribable gleam in her eyes — piercing 
into the very depths of Father Jerome’s soul, in a low 
voice she exclaimed — “Father, shall I slay myself?” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


125 


“Alas, God hasten his mercy upon you: I know not!” 
distractedly answered Father Jerome. “But my 
child! father — alas, my infant boy!” Louise buried 
her weeping* face in the old man’s palms. “And I 
cannot help you!” murmured Father Jerome, whilst 
his firmly fixed eyes stared vacantly into the shadows. 

“Hark! ” exclaimed Margaret, “I hear footsteps.” 
“It is perhaps the city physician,” remarked Father 
Jerome. Louise rearranged her hood and carefully 
pulled down her veil. Presently the bolts were drawn 
and a form entered. “Bring* me an oil lamp and 
light up this dismal den,” remarked the physician to 
the guard. 

“It is Doctor North,” exclaimed Margaret, draw- 
ing the covers about her shoulders. “Then there is 
no danger,” whispered Father Jerome to Louise Pol- 
lard. 

The Doctor finally came forward alone and set the 
lamp and his medicine case upon the table, then took 
a seat near the couch. “Well, how are you Mar- 
garet?” inquired the young man, unmindful of the 
presence of the other two. “ I am getting better, Doc- 
tor, every day.” “Ah, I see you are. Father, Mar- 
garet’s fever has broken,” exclaimed the young man, 
tenderly raising his hand from Margaret’s brow from 
which heavy drops of perspiration glided down across 
her temples. He then took her wrist between his 
fingers, and in a few moments remarked: “Your 
pulse is quite normal Margaret — considering. Now 
with proper care, all will be well ; but not without 
patience — it will require extraordinary patience on 


126 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


your part, Margaret,” remarked the young physician 
with characteristic thoughtfulness. “ Father Jer- 
ome,” exclaimed he, turning on his chair — “What!, 
This is certainly not — ” 

“Louise,” murmured Father Jerome. 

“ Silence! Doctor. For the grace of Heaven do not 
speak my name aloud,” whispered Louise Pollard, 
startled. “ Yes, it is I.” 

“Your child—?” 

“It is safe,” tenderly interrupted the young mother. 
There was a cadence of melancholy in her voice which 
touched the young man. “ Louise, are you in need? ” 

“Need, Doctor — yes!” answered she in meditation, 
but with an equivocal inflection. “Yes — in need!” 
The young man appealed to Father Jerome with his 
eyes; then to Louise. “Louise, why have you not 
spoken? ” 

“I have.” 

“But to whom? ” 

Louise cast her melancholy eyes upon the floor. 
“ Him to whom Father Jerome has called.” 

Father Jerome made no answer to the quick inquir- 
ing glance of the young man. “To whom, Louise, 
have you spoken? ” 

“To God.” 

“To God — to God!” meditated the young man in 
the silence, thoughtfully looking into the puny fire ; 
then casting his eyes upon Margaret’s beautiful hair 
which spread out over the pillow like little threads of 
gold. “How many people to-night, are doing the 
same!” muttered he. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard \TJ 

“Yea — upon their knees, groaning to God!” lowly 
echoed Louise Pollard. 

“And, does he not answer you? ” meekly inquired 
Margaret casting her large blue eyes upon Louise. 
Louise Pollard was silent. Her eyes were fixed upon 
the floor. Her melancholy mouth was tightly closed. 
Presently she opened her eyelids and a tear trinkled 
down her cheek. It was evident to all, that a bitter 
struggle was then engaging her mind. In a moment, 
quietly she arose from her seat and took from a hand- 
bag which she carried, a small box, securely tied with 
a twine. She had grown visibly paler. Presently 
she opened her tightly pressed lips and said: “Father; 
in this I have placed that which I would keep sacred 
from all” — she hesitated — “from all, but my child 
— my child! If in the future, I return, I will claim it. 
If I should not return — ” continued she, pitifully strug- 
gling — “ alas, my God! — I know not — ” her mind was 
slightly wandering ; her pale lips quivered, as her eyes 
nervously changed position — “ alas, I know not if I 
may see you again.” The old man’s eyes dilated, as 
his outstretched hand slowly closed upon the box. The 
young man had arisen from his chair. “ If the flight 
of many months, bring no tidings of me — in this, you 
will find — that which I wish — preserved for my infant 
child.” She then approached the bedside of the sick 
girl, and kneeling, she clasped Margaret’s golden head 
to her breast, whispering to her with quivering lips: 
“ Margaret, believe in God, though he seems to forget 
us! Margaret, I may never see you again.” Margaret 
buried her face in the folds of Louise’s bosom and 


128 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

wept bitterly. Father Jerome slowly walked up to the 
couch and knelt down by the side of the young woman. 
His lips were closed in a struggle with his mind. His 
eyes were fixed upon the blank darkness in front. In a 
moment his spirit seemed to break from the bondage 
of years as he leaned forward and buried his face in the 
soft pillow, clutching at his white locks with his up- 
lifted hands, quivering throughout his body. There 
was silence. Father Jerome was unfamiliar with reli- 
gious rituals. His prayers were silent. They were 
upheavals of the human heart — resolutions of adamant 
— sorrows that quiver silently throughout the ethers 
of space. 

The young man was affected. Resting with his 
elbow upon the table, his hand tightly clutching his 
brow, resolutely he clinched his strong right hand and 
muttered to himself: “ From this time forth — to the 
end of life! ” His eyes were gleaming in the lamp 
light. 

For some moments no audible sound had disturbed 
the silence. Father Jerome had not raised his face 
from the pillow. Presently he heard the young man 
pleading “But in this lonely night will you not 
need my aid? ” Some feet away, stood Louise Pollard, 
partially obscured by the shadows. The young man 
stood near her. Margaret had buried her weeping 
face in her pillow. “Are you going, Louise?” in- 
quired Father Jerome, slowly staggering toward her. 
“Yes, father; I have said— farewell.” She reached 
forth her hand. The old man pressed it to his bosom. 
“No, Doctor, I thank you. I do not apprehend I shall 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 129 

need aid. I feel I shall reach home safely,” answered 
Louise. 

Then she tenderly withdrew her hand and knocked 
upon the bolted door. There was a long* silence. 
Presently the bolts rattled, the door opened, and her 
shadowy form silently disappeared. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A PHANTOM OF THE MIST. 

O INCE the departure of Louise, two weeks had now 
^ elapsed. Her whereabouts had become a matter 
of anxiety to Father Jerome. A third week passed ; 
but no tiding-s. 

“I have said farewell.” This terrible sentence 
ling-ered in the mind of those who had heard it. It 
haunted the old prison awakening Father Jerome’s 
pillow like a g-host. A fifth week was approaching-. 
Louise had not yet returned. Father Jerome sum- 
moned his young- friend. For some moments their con- 
versation was devoted to Father Jerome’s case. If he 
could obtain a reissue of his papers of discharg-e from 
the army, or even, a sworn transcript of the records at 
Washing-ton, he mig-ht hope for a release from prison. 

“Doctor, the human mind is made of adamantive 
stuff, else few there are who could stand the strain of 
misfortune,” remarked Father Jerome. The young- 
man was silent, althoug-h his mind painfully labored 
for reply. For “ what philosophy,” thoug-ht he, “ can 
condole with ag-e and dispair? ” He looked about 


130 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


him and heard the cold winds chafing- in the window 
casements. Finally he inquired: “It is now the first 
month of spring-. Have you received any news from 
Washing-ton? ” 

“Yes, Doctor, a full investigation of my case will 
be shortly entered by the War Department.” 

“ Shortly! ” reported the young- man exasperated at 
the delay. 

“Yes. But make haste! It is not of myself that 
I am now worried. Tell me all that you have learned 
concerning- Louise? ” 

“Nothing!” was the answer. 

“Are you keeping close watch upon the daily 
news? ” 

“Yes, father, but not the slightest clue has yet 
been noted. Besides, my exploration in that vicinity 
where she is likely secreted has }delded nothing.” 

“Doctor, I fear something disastrous. Louise cer- 
tainly intended a return visit, having left no inscrip- 
tion on the box.” 

“ Has the box a seal? ” 

“No. But it is a trust, to be kept for her child, 
and I dare not open it.” 

“How will it be possible, father, for you to exe- 
cute this trust, having no knowledge of the where- 
abouts of the child? ” 

“ The old man hesitated. “ What shall be done? ” 

“Open the box,” was the answer. Father Jerome 
drew the box from the inside pocket of his coat, and 
holding it in his trembling hands, inspected it care- 
fully. “We will wait till to-morrow,” answered he. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


131 


Time past and no tidings came. 

Only the briefest account of the truth can here be 
related. 

It was evening time — perhaps as late as May. 
Down in that locality where the bristling masts of 
ocean vessels are to be seen, and ships lie quietly in 
the embrace of the slips, a young woman was seen 
standing on a lonely wharf by the side of which the 
deep dark waters glided along to meet the bay. 
Behind the clouds in the west which at an early hour 
had cast a grayish light over the earth the sun had 
long since sunken behind a curtain of prophetic , 
storms. Far out at sea the seamen had noted the wild 
and capricious flight of screaming gulls. There was 
an increasing gale. Finally night settled down with 
her leaden mantel, and the dusk of evening cloaked 
and hooded by the river mist, thickened the evening 
air like a dark veil. 

Strange this lonely being had not attracted the 
notice of the watchman, for few suspicious characters 
escape their vigilance. What meant Louise Pollard 
at this late hour standing like a spectre in the even- 
ing mist? She approached the fatal edge of the 
wharf and stood for a moment looking down into the 
lonely waters. The tide that alternately raised and 
lowered, rippled along the sea-wall of spiling. Pres- 
ently a form arose out of the shadows and slowly ap- 
proached her, apparently unconscious of the presence 
of any other being. Louise started. Before her, in 
the dusk, stood the woman whose exquisite linea- 
ments had so enchanted her whilst she was passing 
through the apartments of the home of Black Sally. 


132 The Mystery of Louise Polldrd. 

For a moment both young 1 women stood mutely 
gazing into each other’s faces. No words were nec- 
essary. Their countenances were an open book 
wherein each could read the other’s thoughts. Louise’s 
face was composed, though very pale. Her brow 
which shone beneath the fold of a thin dark shawl 
which was fastened about her head was white and 
pure in its profound resignation. The face of the 
stranger was written deep with the marks of agony — 
pale, the eyes gleaming, the forehead crimped, the 
corners of the mouth drawn — goaded by misfor- 
tune, lashed by the whip of conscience, consumed 
by a hell of memory. Presently her hollow voice 
lowly broke the silence. “The wages of sin are death. 
May God have mercy on our souls!” 

Louise was too occupied to make reply. She felt 
the sacred presence of the Infinite. 

Neither of the women had noted the presence of a 
distant watchman who was steadily approaching 
through the shadows. Presently a watery billow 
burst along the wall and sent 'its soft wet spray 
admonishingly upon their feet. The watchman again 
looked but the two dim forms were gone — invisibly 
melted into the rolling mist. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


133 


CHAPTER XV. 


A SILHOUETTE. 


WAY ! Let us away. Up from the sweltering- val- 



ley of dust ; far into the mountains, let us be off. 
Let us leave prison cells, torture, misery, penury. 
Let us break throug-h the clouds and breathe for a 
moment the heaven-indued lining- beyond ! As from 
a trance, let us awaken in a new land and a new era! 

The delicate threads that bind tog-el her the clues 
of the mystery have suddenly snapped asunder — one 
part floating on and on, over hill and dale, mountain, 
valley and stream, until caught in a favoring gale 
and wafted earthward again, to entwine its slender 
fingers in a new land and a new era. 

Imagine a mountain solitude. Crags, cliffs, rocks, 
heights, forests and little mountain streams — the crust 
of God’s earth disturbed by a mighty ploughshare — 
the ragged surface slackened and molded through the 
frosts and rains of eons — clouds and patches of sky 
that from the deep ravine seemed to rest on the tops 
of rude, moss-covered castles and ladders of lofty 
rocks — no voice save that from the whispering lips of 
nature — peaceful, calm. 

It is the year 1852 — autumn in one of nature’s 
romantic solitudes. Upon the crest of the Tennessee 
mountains the morning sun is brightly dawning. 
Deep in the valley rests the sleeping mists of night. 
Like dim, mysterious phantoms, from the lowlands at 


134 The Mystery of Louise ^Pollard. 

intervals arise on humied wing’s the slowly moving’ 
fog’s. Silent are the leaves of the hickory, walnut 
and pine. By the banks of the mountain stream, which 
tumbles its waters into the Ohio far to the north, 
stand the silent forms of tenebrious willows, each 
drooping its slender, dewy limbs in the morning - sun, 
which alternately advances and retreats through the 
swiftly vanishing- mists. Up the mountain heig-hts 
steadily creeps the sun, bursting - into yellow flames 
from out the opal fountains of the sky; setting - on fire 
with transitory colors the changing - flocks of east- 
ern clouds. One by one arise to view the lesser heights 
and elevations, showing here and there a small, grass- 
covered plateau, or mountainous hill, girded with 
forest. 

Here and there stands forth a crag, whilst far up, 
on some desolate height lies the trunk of a pine, 
prone upon its side — its long fingers pointing to the 
vale, its roots heaved up from a huge bed of clay b} 
some past mountain storm. 

But in this mountain solitude of crag, sunshine, 
forest and hill, one feature, solitary and alone, with 
impressive significance, animates the scene of natural 
grandeur. 

As the morning sun upon the horizon now stretches 
forth his arms of light, to clasp the crags and moun- 
tain sides in beams of amorous ether; upon a lofty, 
precipitous cliff, overlooking the little stream stands 
the form of a man — his body visible in the morning 
light. At the base of the cliff upon which he stands, 
some hundred feet below, lies the brown form of an 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 135 

enormous bolder. Upon its engraven sides are the 
marks of an old glacier, and at its solemn base stands 
an enormous pine whose majestic top scarcely touches 
the threatening- stony crown ; whilst far, far below, 
slanting- obliquely to the valley, spreads out the 
mountain base — its feet laved in the stream. Upon 
this slanting- mountain base stands a thick growth of 
forest, amidst which appear tall pines like hug-e darts 
shot from on hig-h as seen from the cliff over-looking 
them. 

Whilst as yet the gray lig-ht of morning- steals in 
slowly vanishing- shadows from out the valley ; upon 
the edg-e of the cliff sat the strang-er musing upon 
the upturned face of nature ; calmly tracing the 
outline of hill and mountain, crag and steep, and the 
dimly lighted waters, whose silvery gleam by times 
shot through its fastly fading canopy of mist. Per- 
haps he is watching the long, flaming bands of light ; 
those indescribable tints which come up with the sun — 
nowhere so gorgeous as in the mountain solitudes — 
now blushing to red, now melting into orange, or 
fading throughout the fathomless depths into pearl ; 
mingling in the awful spaces beyond their majestically 
beautiful ethers. 

Perhaps he listens to the voice of nature as she 
speaks from out that vast solitude of slumbering hills ; 
or rejoices in the indescribable beauty of light and 
shadow, stealing from over a mountain crag, hoary 
with a thousand centuries. 

Perhaps from that lofty niche, that silent dreamy 
height, swathed in the weird light of the morning 


136 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

and the peacefully creeping- mountain air he dreams 
of the human thousands now slowly arising- from the 
couch of sleep at the first touch of the morning- sun, 
awakening- the world to the unending- battle of life. 

Naught disturbs the repose of nature. All is 
calm, except perhaps a slig-ht trembling- in the forest 
leaves touched by the morning- air which arises as the 
sun mounts into the sky. 

From no point in the valley could it have been 
discerned, how it were in the bounds of human 
effort to g-ain the heig-ht upon which so composedly 
sat this being-. 

The cliff fronted the east, frowning- upon the 
stream a thousand feet away, staring- with grim face 
upon the neighboring- eastern mountain. How long 
through the night of the awful past it had silently 
o’erlooked the vale like some huge frontal bone of 
human skull, jutting from out the mountain side, let 
nature and her mysteries fathom. Upon its perpen- 
dicular face, over which the storms had swept for un- 
told ages — marking the eras of a mysterious past — • 
brooded an eternal calm seen upon many a mouiitain 
cliff, bespeaking the awe which nature wears when, 
contemplative, she sits ruminating upon her own 
grandeur. 

The otherwise smooth face of the cliff was at 
points slightly broken by projecting ledges, upon 
which grew stunted vines, wild roses and perennial 
creepers — their fingers thrust into the riven stone or 
plastered to the smooth face of the perpendicular 
declivity. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 137 

Upon the north all passage was blocked by a great 
tree which in time past had been swept from its 
mountain home by a blast of lightning or the whirl of 
a tempest. Massive rocks also lay about, lifted from 
their homes in the earth by the incessant efforts of the 
frost through long ages of unremitting toil ; or per- 
haps deposited there by that mythical monster, the 
Ice King in glacial days. On the south, nature had 
left one possible means of ascent. And by it, if per- 
sued with skill up its steep as well as sinuous trail, a 
footman could make his way into a niche in the cliff 
where we first find the being whose presence from the 
valley certainly would seem the most enigmatical. 

As he sat there upon that verge, to the naked eye 
he had the appearance of some mountain bird, which 
had alighted for a time to plume its wings in the 
light of the morning sun; but when he arose — as some 
times he did — and placed his hand to his brow, sweep- 
ing all within the field of vision open to him, his form 
stood defined against the white wall of the niche. 

Above his head the trunk of a pine which had 
been stripped of limbs and bark, and polished by in- 
numerable storms, pointed from the brow of the cliff 
like a great ivory horn. 

After a time the sun had arisen above the broken 
horizon, and now those desolate heights were showered 
with light; and the rugged, stony faces, clearly de- 
fined, in unspeakable reverence uplifted their visage to 
the sky, or upon the valley bent in calm pensiveness. 

Below, slowly awakening from its mists, shone the 
stream winding peacefully through the hills, clothed 


138 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


on either side with ragged forest and spots of green, 
with here and there a sharply defined bluff. 

Far above in the sky, in apparent proximity to a 
small feathery cloud, soared a huge bird — eagle or 
vulture — sailing in a tremendous circle with a radius 
of at least a mile. Throughout the vast solitude — but 
two animate creatures — the man in the niche upon 
that dizzy cliff, and the bird from its height looking down 
upon the mountain tops, the bald knobs, the project- 
ing cliffs and towers. Silent — majestic! But alas ! 
That beautiful placidity of nature was soon to be 
broken. With the screams of death, to be terrorized! 

As if in prescience of the drama about to be en- 
acted, those majestic heights were arranged about in 
silent awe, looking upon each other and the timid 
stream whose tongueless waters scarcely whispered as 
they laved the overhanging rocks. Throughout the 
woodland reigned a breathless silence. 

The man upon the cliff suddenly sprang to his 
feet. Running up to a large rock which lay at the 
south entrance of the niche, he grasped its rugged 
face and leaned forward as one intently listening. 

Presently from out the weird silence of the valley 
came the musical bay of a hound! 

How indescribably beautiful is this sound where 
cliff echoes to cliff and the very crags take up the notes 
and bear them on. Sweet as the voice of a bugle came 
the notes from some mysterious point, melting along 
the mountain sides. Softly the vast .empty space 
seemed to drink in with famished lips that melody so 
strange ; where sound seemed to change the face of 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 139 

nature — so habituated was the spot to the solemn 
silence of the mountain solitude. Again came forth 
that long, mellifluous reverberation ; slowly creeping 
up the valley till it spent itself in receding waves 
from off the slanting heights then died away into 
silence more profound because of the strange awaken- 
ing. 

The being upon the cliff came forward, stretched 
forth his neck, leaned desperately over the giddy 
height till it would seem he must be precipitated from 
the verge. He was looking steadily up the valley. 

Long he stood there in silence, awaiting perchance 
the next reverberation which would discover to him 
the object. But no sound broke the quiet. More the 
phantom of a dream had it been, than a living utter- 
ance. For a moment aroused, nature again sank 
back into that calm which seemed her very genius. 
From their dens for a moment peeped the mountain 
foxes, muttered a low growl and again slunk back. 
Aloft the eagle continued his flight. 

After some more slightly perceptible moves, the man 
upon the cliff adjusted himself in a leaning posture 
beside the rock which supported his body* He was 
fixed in attention. For the first time did this stranger 
seem to have one over-powering thought! Riveted to 
the spot as though by some apparition which called 
forth his uttermost faculties, he remained to all 
appearances gazing upon a single object far away. 

At the south entrance to the niche in which he 
stood there lay a large rock, covered on its top with 
small bunches of grass and a few creeping vines ; pro- 


140 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

tecting- the entrance like the out-works of a fortress. 
It was ag-ainst this he was leaning-. There was 
another deep bay. Suddenly, and at this apparent 
warning-, he leaped upon this natural parapet and 
stood for an instant, his full form clearly defined in 
the sun ; then quickly descending- upon the sloping- 
side of the mountain, he hastily picked up an armful 
of stones and with rapid retreat ag-ain disappeared 
within the niche. Twice he repeated this strang-e 
movement, and at last disappeared completely. 

And now soon followed a scene, whose frig-htful 
and strang-e details, it is perhaps impossible in words 
to faithfully reveal. The entire valley at once in 
redoubled resonation, awakened, as at sing-le desig-ns 
to the furious accent of the hound! Far up the valley, 
where the stream lost itself in the edg-e of the forest, 
where it seemed to dive in between abutting- hills, 
was seen a chorus of hounds swiftly emerging- from 
out the woodland. Their heads down ; their noses 
threading- the way over the fast receding* earth ; they 
seemed rather following- a hot trail than in pursuit of 
anything- visible. 

For a long- time lost to view and hid within the 
deep recesses of the niche, the man upon the cliff was 
finally seen to carefully thrust out his head from behind 
the rocky wall. It now became apparent that this 
oncoming- pack, with its multiplied echoes, which now 
resounded from every cliff, bore close relation to this 
man’s mysterious presence. 

By times retracing- their steps to pick up the lost 
trail ; bounding- madly at intervals into the air ; one 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


141 


hound awakening the hollowness of nature with inces- 
sant peals, rich, yet thrilling, and at times positively 
startling the blood with that indescribable cadence 
which carries with it the presence of the dreadful, on 
came that pack of beasts made doubly furious by the 
fresh scent from the hot trail over which they sped 
like swallows. Lost for a moment within the copses, 
suddenly they would plunge into view from three 
several points ; each a living tempest of animal 
instinct! Skirting around a hill they appeared with a 
leap at the crest, from which they sped, swiftly disap- 
pearing within the neighboring depressions again. 

Soon the enemy were multiplied! if enemy they 
were. From out the wood, came forth on swift gal- 
lop, two mounted men. They rushed impetuously 
upon a height, which commanded the valley. One 
pulled forth a glass and surveyed the field. 

In a moment they had located the dogs. Again 
putting spurs to their panting steeds, and darting 
down the incline they were lost to view. 

The picture momentarily became more interesting. 
As the manifestations in the valley became more 
threatening the being upon the cliff hugged more 
closely to the sheltering rocks. By times he took a 
hasty glance at the animals, who were now making 
their intentions less questionable as they followed the 
path up which ere the break of day the man had 
ascended into his hiding. The dogs were bloodhounds 
— and he, a slave! The question was solved. 


142 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE ENCOUNTER. 

T"HIS interesting- cliff-man was a type of those in- 
* tensely black Africans, whose powerful warlike 
tribes have immortalized their race with deeds of sav- 
age valor upon the African hills — the monarchs of 
that mysterious continent. This individual himself 
was of massive size and extraordinary strength. His 
clothing consisted of a loose, cotton shirt, an old 
slouch hat, heavy shoes of the kind usually worn by 
slaves, and lastly a thin pair of pants which were 
fastened at the waist by a girdle of leather. In his 
pocket he carried a rudely fashioned but vicious in- 
strument — a long, clasp-knife. 

The most remarkable feature of his apparel, how- 
ever, consisted of something entwined about his 
waist, like the several coils of a serpent. One end of 
this gearing came up under his arm and was made fast 
to an iron collar which encircled his massive neck. 

On one side of this frightful metal band there was 
a rude but interesting inscription. It read : “ Vulcan, 
chattle-slave of Charles Vanderg, Vicksburg, Miss.” 
The name “ Vulcan” had been freshly stamped. The 
remainder of the inscription was old, plainly indicating 
that this collar was only a sample among others of its 
kind belonging to a “speculator.” There were three 
things which from the first moment united to make 
the approaching encounter tragic. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 143 

First — If this giant were ever taken alive there 
was gained a reward of $800. If dead $300. Second — 
The previous history of this black man revealed the 
unpleasant fact that he possessed no fear of the re- 
sults of resistance. Third — His present adversaries 
themselves were desperate men, as well as profession- 
als. Besides, the attack was led by blood-hounds. 

Blood-hounds carefully trained seldom give utter- 
ance to their frenzy, but with studied silence and the 
haste of the catapult they come upon their prey. Two 
of those now approaching were of that species. But 
along with them there was one less skilled, and his 
unrestrained echoes each time his frenzied instinct 
smelt the hot trail announced the presence of that 
animal fury before which the bravest slave had 
cause to tremble. 

How dismal, how terrible, how unutterably fearful 
as we recall the instinct of those man-hunting beasts, 
were those canine echos! The slave upon the cliff 
crouched low, until an unaccustomed eye could not 
have detected the slightest token of his presence. 
Who can portray the heart beats , the fierce and 
almost savage expectancy ; the clinched teeth and 
fixed eyes , the statue of ebony into which desperation 
had magically changed this slave as he crouched there 
with eyes riveted upon the fast approaching beasts. 

There was foam in their red mouths and upon their 
sides. For a moment they loose the trail. Running 
out upon a shelving rock they give utterance to the 
most indescribable howl, filled at once with all the 
savageness of their instinct and the madness of disap- 


144 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

pointment. The bushes and tangled briers thwart 
them. They are enfuriated! They loiter upon the 
slopes, look back over the valley and howl with 
enkindled rage. Again their eyes turn to the yet 
unsealed rocky barriers. They dash upon the stones, 
or stop for an instant, panting with that fierce ex- 
citement into which only the beast can be trans- 
ported. Surveying from their height, their masters 
who were hitching their horses below, they gave vent 
to uneasy savage whines. 

The slave upon the cliff has hidden within the 
ledge. Can it be that he is safe? God pity him if he 
must encounter that brindle hound wearing the collar 
with the steel spines, or the black, whose lips are now 
drewling bloody foam. 

He has now completely hidden himself within the 
niche. The little vines that crown the protecting 
parapet move gently in the morning air. Silent and 
impressive arises the skull-like features of the frown- 
ing cliff ; frightful is the scene in its desperate por- 
tent. The horses once secured, the persurers began 
the long ascent, cursing as at times they fall upon the 
acute inclines or trip upon the stones. At intervals is 
heard their voices far down the mountain, yet more 
than a thousand feet away, inciting the beasts with 
oaths. On, sped the hounds, the prey is nigh. Al- 
ready they feast their gloating instinct with the near- 
ness of the victim. 

Finally, after many desperate leaps and recoils, 
the black hound gains the top, and with an assured 
bound lights squarely upon the rocky parapet. For 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


145 


an instant he surveys the niche. His large, leonine 
body is clearly defined. 

But his mission had ended. A stone, as if from 
the string of a catapult, came from out the recess of 
the cliff and the beast fell back limp among the rocks. 
Unchecked by this result, the hound, whose terrible 
throat had for the past ten minutes converted the soli- 
tude into a dismal hell, sprang upon the spot from 
whence his predecessor had fallen ; tarried but for an 
instant and then leaped into the arena. 

It was plain the slave was in hiding at this moment, 
for the hound ran .swiftly out upon the verge of the 
cliff ; lifted high his head, giving the most passionate 
and enraged howl, accentuated with a cadence more 
diabolical than seldom springs from the unrestrained 
savagery of beasts. Instantly a stone came rushing 
through the air with fearful velocity, but misguided 
in its flight. The dog escapes and the stone bounds 
from the ledge to the great rocks at the base of the 
cliff, thence disappears with a crash throngh the up- 
ward thrust limbs of the pine below. 

Maddened by the fruitless menace, and doubly 
assured by the sight of the prey, the hound sprang 
forth upon the body of the black. Then came the 
sound of strife between brute and man from off that 
giddy height. From out the niche was heard a 
sound at once strange and terrible. It was not human, 
and yet it was. Far reaching and indescribable that 
maddened cadence sprang from out the recess like an 
arrow of fire into the sky. It was the madness of hell 
in a single note. With a despairing yell the negro 


146 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


had grappled with his foe! The low howl of the 
hound was muffled by the intervening’ rocks, and all 
sank back into painful silence. From these mysterious 
tokens the tragedy — had it not already ended — could 
not have been divined. Undoubtedly the clasp-knife 
was doing- its deadly work. But the great brindle 
beast, he with the iron collar and spines, was not slow 
to the rescue. With a bound he cleared the stony 
outwork and alig-hted squarely upon his feet. He ran 
out upon the verg-e of the cliff, sniffing- the air — raised 
his terrible head, emitting a low, savage whine. 

Upon his brindle sides lay great, white blotches of 
foam. He had stood but an instant when a boulder 
glanced from his side, and spent its flight in harmless 
rattle far below among the limbs of the pine. It was 
an extreme moment ! 

Instantly the beast lowered himself in the attitude 
of the tiger about to spring ; lashed his tail from side 
to side as an angry cat, and with a crackling roar 
sprang through the air! Both men had now ap- 
peared at once upon the rocks to the south, over 
which the hounds had one by one made their en- 
trance. One of them cried aloud in words and oaths 
inarticulate ; and placing his hand upon the rock 
leaped down into the arena. There was no articulate 
language necessary. Kach knew well the part he 
was to play in this tragic pantomime — and from first 
to last played it well. The brindle hound had fast- 
ened his fangs in the flesh of the slave’s arm, and 
with frightful jerks had dragged him into sight. 
The eyes of the frenzied negro had become marvel- 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


147 


ously large and gleaming. His black face had been 
transformed into the likeness of an enraged tiger. 
The eyebrows, drawn together, produced several 
deep, long indentures, radiating upward across the 
forehead, notunlike a cluster of poisoned javelins used 
by his dark savage race, in the deep forests of Africa. 
His lips were drawn into two hideous loops, display- 
ing two rows of sharp ivory teeth. For a moment 
man and beast struggled upon the brink. The 
black stooped, lifted what appeared to be a pike, 
raised it high, and with a quick thrust planted it 
between the flaming jaws of the dog, burying it deep 
into the lungs. With rage and pain, accentuated by 
the most unearthly cries, wild and senseless, the 
beast lunged from off the height, falling upon the 
great stone far below. 

Instantly the black and his human adversaries 
met near the verge of the cliff. The black was struck 
with a blunt instrument ; perhaps the butt of a re- 
volver. Dazed by the blow he reeled, but recovering 
came forward and clinched his adversary. And then 
ensued a struggle more pronounced, more frightful in 
its details and more appalling in its results than it is 
possible in feeble words to relate. In fact the pres- 
ent horror of the encounter is quite sufficient- v sick- 
ening to the unaided imagination ; located as it 
was upon such a precipice, doomed from the £*-st to 
be a fight until death — barricaded as they were from 
all possible escape from that horrible niche now 
smoking with blood, and over whose dizzy brink the 
most alarming and hideous of deaths awaited the* 


148 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


victim, far, far below among- the ledges, or upon the 
great bolder which lay grimly at the base. 

Since the death of the last hound who in fatal 
madness had sprang from off the cliff with the pike 
still reeking within his lungs, the noise had sub- 
sided to a sharp scuffle of feet, mingled with an 
occasional oath muttered low and deep between 
clinched teeth. This encounter was taking place 
upon the very verge of the cliff, but with mutual 
fear the struggling beings drew away until they dis- 
appeared within the niche. 

One of the whites who as yet had not clinched 
with the negro, had been persuing his vantage, seek- 
ing a chance to fire into the unprotected body of the 
black. Finally there was a sharp report, followed by 
a puff of smoke, and the terrible cliff again resumed 
tranquility , this time made doubly solemn by the 
awful silence which for a few moments ensued. 

Had the deed been done? Had the curtain dropped 
upon the final act ? Aloft soared on even pinions the 
great vulture — his eye at that moment feasting upon 
the ghastly bodies, or gloating over the blood-stained 
rocks. Below, upon the brown face of the ledge, a 
mountain animal, perhaps a fox, aroused by the 
sound of the strife, had crept out and sat in the sun 
keenly listening. Far away through the valley were 
the frightened horses. They had each broken their 
straps and now sped in terror from the spot — dashed 
like a flash into the forest and were lost to sight. 

Suddenly again the bald crown of the cliff awakens 
by the presence of two struggling, human beings. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 149 

The third was likely dead ! No, not dead ; his form 
is seen reeling along the south wall. He is stealing 
upon the negro ! But it is evident that he is dazed by 
a stroke which has been received, whilst within the 
niche, yet does he drag his steps ever closer. 

How desperate, how unspeakable ! Again they 
struggle upon the brink. It is the embrace of death ! 
Fingers and teeth are buried in foeman’s flesh. 
Lo, there comes a moment appalling even to the im- 
agination. They grasp for life ! By times a 
body half inclines over that rocky crest. Stones 
broken from the verge, fall in chunks ; down, down, 
down, beating themselves into fragments upon the 
projecting ledges. There is a cry upon the air. It 
springs from human lips — but how utterly beyond the 
force of human speech to portray ! It had within its 
sharp but quivering cadence the heart-enthralling 
modulations of the diabolical. Falling, sinking, 
cleaving and quivering . upon the ear. Great God, 
the battle ends ! 

Lifted high in air, a human body is suddenly 
hurled from off the giddy brink. With a downward 
rush, faster, yet more fast as it nears the fleeting 
ledges ; completing two revolutions in its mad plunge ; 
Down, down ! it hurries — falls at last prone upon 
the great rock at the base of the cliff and rolls thence 
slowly, limp and dead, into the branches of the 
pine, where it makes its final and lasting lodgment. 
It is the body of one of the whites. The slave is yet 
alive ! 

During the encounter so feebly herein told, the 


150 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

long- rope or queer bodily gearing-, which at first was 
entwined about the body of the black, had been 
slowly uncoiling, and now swung loose in the wind. 

Hark ! It rattles upon the stones as it falls about 
his feet. God pity him — it is a chain ! It is fast- 
ened at his neck. It is riveted to the iron collar ! 
See ! He grasps it and whirls it on high ! Down 
falls the whistling links, each clinging to its neigh- 
bor — welded by centrifugal force into a rod of iron. 
Swiftly, does it cleave the air, and with a thud, buries 
itself in the skull of the last surviving foe. 

The stricken white — his cranium cut to the brain — 
falls. The head drops back, the mouth opens, the 
eyes roll and cast upon the black their ghastly visions 
of death. The battle has ended. 

Timp, trembling, panting, faint from loss of blood, 
the black leaned for support against the north wall 
of the niche. Upon his heaving chest his head 
droops, his jaws fall apart and the tongue protrudes ; 
his quivering nerves emptied of their last vital atom. 
At this moment, had a fly rested in his great palm, he 
could not have crushed it. From his broad hairy 
chest, issued a volume of steam. From off his brow 
and neck exuded a flood of sweat. See! The giant 
knees tremble ; he faints ; he falls prone upon the flat 
top of the cliff ; limp he falls, silent upon the stony 
floor. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


I5i 


CHAPTER XVII. 

VULCAN MEETS MAURICE SEVERGN. 

]\1 OT far from the city of Cincinnati, and just three 
1 ^ days after the tragedy in the mountains, a young 
man was lying’ under the sheltering- umbrag-e of a 
great elm which stood above a ledg-e of trap-rock 
overhanging- the Ohio river. In the west sank the 
evening sun deeply impurpled with his five o’clock robe 
of molten gold, through which came raining arrows 
of light, transmuting hill and vale to orange-gray and 
emerald. In the river plowed lazily a side-wheel 
steamer, the only watercraft in sight. It had passed 
the ledge upon which lay our new acquaintance. 

Maurice Severgn was an intellectual voluptuary, 
for he was a student, and the life of the student is but 
the prolongation of intellectual voluptuousness. Life 
knows no bliss until it has tasted of this, the most 
heavenly of earthly joys. As the great western clouds 
burst forth in their unearthly glow whilst behind them 
sank the sun in that awful magnificence of his — best 
seen at the evening hour ; as slowly lengthened the 
shadows from the hills, darkling their sleepy forms 
upon the river, still tarried Maurice Severgn, whilst 
in his mind sped forth those reveries which fill the 
wakeful hours of youth with the prophetic starlight 
of genius. He had known deep suffering, for in his 
youth he had tasted of the very dregs of sorrow — we 
should say in his childhood — for he was yet young. 


152 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

He had been taught stern practicability, and yet was he 
a dreamer in the most unequivocal sense of that 
phrase. 

The great men of earth, those whose intellects 
have burst upon the common darkness of life with the 
incandescence of genius, all spent a youth within the 
perfumed shades of revery, beneath the soul moulding 
forces of dreamland. Heaven herself hath parted her 
magic curtains to such as these. 

Seven years within the vast solitudes of the Hyma- 
layas, where naught reigned but the silence of na- 
ture broken at long intervals by the unearthly roar of 
the sea of ice bursting from its glacial home, the 
o’er canoping stars and the undulating map of nature 
his daily communicants, a cave his home, dwelt 
Buddah. From the caves of Asia Minor came forth 
Mohammed, the crusher of idols and the builder of a 
new faith which however fallacious, hath guided the 
destiny of untold millions for these thousand years. 
If but the obscure life of the Immortal Carpenter — him 
whose light shall never fade — if but half of those 
long hours of his, clouded with the world’s woe, 
broken alternately by the unearthly splendor of reve- 
lation — those heavenly dreams of Christ could be 
known, what transcendent flights of mind, mapping 
the course of genius through these mundane clouds as 
with blazing arrows piercing the awful depths, would 
illumine the dark unknown ! 

Such has been genius from the beginning of time. 
Inspiration awakens the soule to lasting deeds where 
solely is found revery and solitude. For revery is the 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


153 


ladder of the mind, climbing- out into space, and 
solitude its ether. 

If to love solitude, to seek seclusion, to be the 
adorer of the great who have left records of their 
fame on the tablets of history ; if to live in a perpetual 
revery of facts of great historic significance, of scien- 
tific precision, of philosophic magnitude ; if to deal 
with the known with sage-like insight, and with the 
unknown with far-reaching analysis ; if to be forever 
surrounded by that weird atmosphere, transcendental, 
is the life of the dreamer, then were the days of 
Maurice Severgn the veritable, star-jemmed zenith of 
dream land. 

Had he been poor he would have been an Oliver 
Goldsmith, aloft in some pauper’s garret, reading in 
the dull shades the philosophies of man, and from his 
humble tenement would he have projected into space 
his silvery dreams of heaven and earth. But by a 
sort of miraculous casting on, a fact which served 
much to make of him a fatalist through life, he was 
rich ; and those long reveries which otherwise might 
have been choked by the gloom of a garret were 
now lifted into the careless sunlight on unfettered 
wings. A day within the the leafy forest, or upon 
the emerald hills meant not to him the castigation 
which the poor pay for luxury. Though by no 
means did affluence make a slave of him, weighing 
down the spirit with the opium of surfeited pleasure. 
Whole days did he wander o’er the Kentucky hills, 
and at night returned on aching feet — upon his 
back the bootv of a crusade in Geology, or with mind 


154 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

filled with that intellectual repast gathered from 
the picture writings of nature. Oft times at dusk, 
slowly moving homeward had he been seen wending 
his way in the lonely shadows of approaching night ; 
and the unsophisticated traveler lending him a seat in 
his wagon, oft found the stupid murk of his every- 
dayness suddenly lighted with that strange twilight 
which comes o’er us in the presence of him who seems 
sainted by the mysteries. For there are none of us 
so dull but that our souls are tuned in unison with 
those pulse beats of nature, which causeth alike the 
glinting beams of Sirius, the Atlantic billow and the 
silently creeping blood in the vein of the rose. 

Severgn was a profound student of books. Like- 
wise had he been an observer, for he had visited many 
lands, and for one of his years he had traveled much. 
Therefore were the images which came to his 
mind from out the written page heightened and made 
vivid by experience — that only school which can raise 
into bass-relief the pictures of the brain. 

Severgn had been seated upon the cliff for perhaps 
an hour. And now the sun from a bank of flaming 
red was bidding farewell to the closing day. Church 
spires and other prominent structures stood clearly 
defined on the western sky. 

Some moments since, Severgn had observed a man 
on the opposite shore come down to the water’s edge. 
Directly the man leaped into the water and began the 
heroic task of swimming the broad river. This task he 
accomplished in a remarkably short space of time. 

Being unconscious of anyone’s presence in this 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


155 


wild and lonly place, after sometime, the swimmer 
slowly made his way to the top of the cliff. He had 
approached within a few rods of Severgn when he 
suddenly halted. Before Severgn stood the giant form 
of Vulcan. The black did not offer to hide the chain 
and iron collar which was still fastened to him. He 
stood silently looking- upon Severgn with a fierce 
unmistakable determination to make himself master 
of this most troublesome and unexpected situation at 
any odds. After a moment Severg-n spoke. “No 
explanation, sir, is necessary. You are a fugitive. It 
is now evening* time. You are undoubtedly hungry 
and tired. You are several hundred miles from 
Canada — follow me.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

ROSETTA THE TROUBADOUR. 

T"HE dreams of Severg-n, to which we have before 
* slightly alluded, were, however, mostly generated 
in the solitude of his vast library, or under the kindly 
foliage of the great trees which graced the sward ; 
which, like a carpet of green velvet, spacious, luxur- 
ious, soft and sweetly scented lay outspread before the 
flower-clad peristyle of the great house in which he 
lived. 

Here among the scented blossoms of rare exotics, 
beneath the soul-moulding witchery of the silent 
shades, his fancies melted into the weird lights of a 
psychic landscape, transmuting the leaden touch of 


156 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


realism into the enchanted ether of ideality. Here 
perused he those strange philosophies which through 
the paths of the abstruse lead the mind into the 
spiritual dells of the unearthly; which like fairy tales, 
after subduing by witchcraft, induce the hero from 
out the shadow of the substantial into the valley ring- 
ing with the laugh of elf and nymph. For more 
keen was the brain of Severgn for the wonders of 
science, than is the pulsing heart of a child for the 
rapture of a nursery tale. 

One day whilst buried in the abstruse philosophy 
of Schopenhauer, a German writer, little known in 
this day, but who at that period was reaping bright 
laurels in his native land, Severgn had been reclining 
in the shade of a poplar whilst following with ravished 
attention “The Laws of Will Bursting Into Life,” of 
“Desires, Unconquerable, the Fruit of all Human 
Evil,” and other such dissertations by that strange old 
cynic, when suddenly, not far away broke forth the 
melody of an Italian harp, accompanied by a female 
voice of the most ravishing sweetness. He closed his 
book, came up into the portico and sat down. Un- 
noticed, or whilst he was within the rugged crags of 
those wild thgughts of the German philosopher, a 
couple of troubadores had entered the gate and com- 
ing up the gravel walk they were now pouring forth 
the melody of their wandering souls beneath the vines 
of the old scent-laden portico. 

At length the music ceased, the great carved doors 
of the house opened, and the gay liveried form of a 
mulatto appeared and dropped a coin in the extended 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


157 


hat of a small Italian boy. “Take them into the 
house, Belshazzar, seat them and call mother,” com- 
manded Severgn. 

The being- from whose lips had flowed the song- 
was a g-irl, but not an Italian, thoug-h such did her 
garb indicate. She was at least fourteen, perhaps 
older. Her long dark auburn hair hung in pretty 
waves at her back. A liberty cap made of a scarlet 
material, neatly decorated with small metal stars and 
a thin gold tassel was secured to her head by means 
of a small metal cincture from which dangled a row 
of fanciful pendants. Her lithe graceful body was 
clothed in a troubadour’s costume, consisting of a loose 
white blouse of black material also decorated with tiny 
metal stars and outlined with a fancy gilt braid. The 
skirt was red and ornamented about two inches from 
the bottom with several rows of gilt. This skirt being 
made short enough to escape the dust, it innocently 
permitted the display of a bit of fancy hose and two 
small black slippers which were clasped to the feet 
with tiny gilt buckles. Her body, face, hands and 
arms were outlined with a classic exactness of har- 
mony and health. She sang with a grace which at 
once reminded the observer of the song bird, whilst 
upon her cheeks went and came a ruddy t-inge, expres- 
sive of her vocaled emotions. The brow shone white 
beneath the scarlet turban, though the pear-shaped 
chin was browned far down the throat by the sun. 

Severgn knew a smattering of Italian, and in the 
roundelay and the tune to which it was woven his 
mind was carried back into a past sweetened by the 


158 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


memory of the enchanted glades of Italy. He had 
more than once tossed a coin for the singing of this 
same song. Once had he heard it in Florence. 

When the musicians had gone, he called to the 
slave and questioned him concerning them. 

“Belshazzar,” inquired Severgn, “give me some 
account of the musicians who have just left the 
gate.” 

“ Master — ” 

“Stop!” exclaimed Severgn, “call me Maurice. 
He who delights in Mendelssohn and has attempted 
the philosophy of Hegel should master no other 
human being.” 

The slave, so grooved in the conventional ways of 
the time in all matters pertaining to the status of his 
race, felt less at home in the extreme liberty thrust 
upon him by his present master than under the ban in 
which his former life had been cursed. And although 
he had served Severgn for several years as body servant 
yet did he lapse irresistably by times into the old ways 
in which he had been taught to go. 

“They serve Cammillo, the fruit vender, he who 
keeps a stand upon the corner across from the State 
bank,” responded the slave. 

“ Is that all you have? ” asked Severgn. 

At the instance of being further importuned on the 
subject for which Belshazzar deemed his master placed 
but a casual curiosity, but for which he found him 
strangely filled with an unsatisfied thirst, he revealed 
a collection of facts from which after more years had 
come about and Severgn had reached mature manhood, 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 159 

the following- history was woven ; in whose woof 
after many pages have been traveled will be plainly 
seen the fatal chain, which finally fell about the young 
philosopher whose nature upon the suface would seem 
steel proof against such possible fate. 

The girl’s youthfulness and Severgn’s present state 
of mind made it now impossible for him to look upon 
her extraordinary combination of vivacity, health, 
beauty, mind, with other than that admiration with 
which he regarded the rare plumage of a wild bird or 
the beauty of one of his exotic flowers. Entirely dif- 
ferent was it with the girl herself. The magnificence 
of Severgn’s home awed her, and his tall form and 
friendly words impressed her till her voice quivered. 

“Take these flowers, little girl,” remarked Madam 
Severgn with tears in her eyes. “My baby girl, if 
God had not taken her from me, would have been 
about your age.” Gratitude is sometimes ingulfed in 
wonderment. The troubadour’s bosom heaved, her 
heart throbbed and her eyes dampened, but she was 
silent. For several succeeding days she would medi- 
tate — “ Some time in my past life I have seen Madam 
Severgn. But where — where ?” This fact rather 
more firmly fastened within her heart the emotion 
which Maurice himself had awakened. 

Avert we then to the central issue of the forth- 
coming chapter ; to the songster and her keep ; to 
Rosetta, whose fame had spread throughout all the 
land wherein she had traveled. 


160 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE PADRONE. 

Across that fetid slough, the Rhine, by which 
name the old canal is known in satirical commemora- 
tion of its silvery namesake, was located the home of 
Camillo, an Italian. From out the racked tenements, 
that realm of squalid Cincinnati where the air was 
fetid with the fumes of stale beer, where at that 
period moved that motley crew of poorest foreigners 
with their big- dirty families, the pauper in his garret, 
the rag-picker in his den, the black-leg in his haunt, 
the scavanger with his stench, the peddler with his 
pack, the rum bloat with his mug, and the Italian 
with his pannier of small wares; where the air was bj- 
times filled with curses and forever a din of clashing 
beer glasses and the song of lewd women ; from this 
place came the nymph-like form of Rosetta — she with 
the brown lustrous eye and the dark auburn hair — 
Rosetta the troubadour, with a voice like the almost 
fabulous notes of the Nightingale. As she came 
from out those abodes where crept forever the social 
shadow of the great city, strange and enchanting 
seemed her plumage ; for Camillo possessed great 
art and knew how to ensnare a public with his song 
bird. Unique and marvelous was she when she posed 
for those songs which hushed the street to a calm and 
brought the merchant from out his shop. 

Camillo had come, in the summer. He had 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 161 

taken his abode in this locality, although it was told 
about with a vein of assurance that the old Italian — 
he the fierce Camillo, around whose step seemed to 
stalk the shadow of dark deeds, from out whose 
flaming eyes shot an unremitting fire, Camillo the 
padrone, was rich. And possibly the argus eyed public 
were not far wrong, for up and down earth’s rugged 
pathway had this swarthy one traveled, and over the 
uneven surface of life had he wandered for many 
years. 

He was now advanced into the vale of life some 
fifty or more years. In his prime he had been tall 
and sinewy, and perhaps of remarkable strength, but 
he was now slightly bent, yet by no means senile in 
his appearance. However, the deep furrows in his 
swarthy face indicated the presence of approaching 
age ; and of his former visage much was obliterated. 
The lines of his face were those of indefinite age, and 
the hieroglyphics of a dubious past. They defied 
analysis, and yet did they speak of something deeply 
written — something akin to suffering, the heart and 
perhaps sin. The cheeks sunken and dark were cov- 
ered with a thick growth of stubble, originally black 
but now sprinkled with short, stiff stubs of gray. 
The lips were thin and firm, the mouth large, the 
nose' a'quiline. Above this psychic landscape, so filled 
with mystery, was chiseled a brow, lofty for that of 
an Italian but fringed at its base with coarse, jutting 
eyebrows, obliquely set, denoting cunning as well as 
cruelty — the entire field lighted by times with the 
flash of two small eyes deeply set in the dark recesses 
of the face. 


162 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


Camillo was one of earth’s unfortunates, one of 
her foot-sore journeymen. Nearly all climes under 
the sun had known his wandering’s. In his youth he 
had known the flame of high ambition ; but a curse 
came upon him. Interfering with the affairs of state, 
he fell a victim to a terrible sentence, and then fled his 
native land. From that day forth the chain of fate 
being sundered he became a mendicant. He might 
have been a political leader, perhaps a statesman. 
Leaving Italy, he being but a youth and unlearned in 
devious ways of earth — his unguided ambition led 
him to the mines of Brazil. Poor blighted crea- 
ture ! He fell lower. He became a slave. Having 
been convicted of robbery he was sentenced for ten 
years to penal servitude in the mines, those splendid 
orifices of earth which his mind had peopled with 
treasure, gold and gems, some day to be his, but now 
gone forever. Escaping he wandered to the rebel- 
lious fields of Mexico, and enlisting under the ban- 
ner of an adventurer, he served five years as a mer- 
cenary — bared his breast to the muzzle of muskets, and 
steeped himself in carnage. The strife over and his 
leader beheaded, he became one among a hundred 
picked men ; launched a brigantine under the very eyes 
of Vera Cruz ; sailed to Central America, where he 
helped to found the only monarchy which up to late 
years maintained in the new world. Here he fell 
into disgrace, returned to Mexico, and after a short 
time came to New Orleans. 

It was at this old French city that his fortune 
suddenly brightened ; and from the day of his landing 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


163 


he prospered as the world goes, in the accumulation 
of gold, a small quantity of which he had laid up and 
secreted for a cold day. For it was in this city that 
he became the possessor of the enchantress, Rosetta. 

The relationship between Camillo and the girl 
were not known, and in vain did a curious public pry 
into the affairs of the old padrone, for not one bit 
nearer did they steal upon the mystery which fell 
about him and his beautiful protege. 

Rosetta was an orphan ; that was certain, for she 
could not be the child of Camillo. Some words had 
been spoken and they had been overheard. Rosetta 
had been known to weep — and do not people in sorrow 
open uncommonly wide the chambers of the heart ? 
So thought Mrs. Grimes, who did out washing on the 
neighboring balcony, and Mrs. Cluben, she who sold 
inferior beer across the way in the basement. Mystery 
cannot live undisturbed. Curiosity is the most in- 
tense of human passions. It projects the mind into 
the unknown and brings forth monstrous shapes ; and 
it names them and sets them afloat. Gossip contains 
within itself the function of self-propagation. Thus 
in time did the story of Rosetta, awakened in the brain 
of an old woman by a mug of beer, finally reach the 
aristocratic, where it was gilded and twisted and en- 
larged. And finally two pretty dames sat musing in 
a parlor dedicated to social chaff, and one of them said 
in all the candor of unsophisticated faith, whilst her 
great beautiful eyes flashed sweetly upon her listning 
companion: “The child is an orphan. She is not 
the child of the Italian. They came from the South. 


164 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

Some say she was found in the streets — the cast-off 
child of an unfortunate mother ; others vow Camillo 
knows more of her history than he dare tell. They 
have wandered long* and the child has visited all the 
cities of the South attainable by car or boat. Camillo 
is very cruel by times, yet again is it said — as though 
stung by conscience — he lavishes upon her the most 
uncommon indulgence. From the latter it is con- 
cluded, and perhaps wisely, that Rosetta sprang from 
great and wealthy parents ; that in her babyhood she 
had been the victim of a plot ; that she had been 
abducted.” 

But certain it was that Rosetta was a valuable 
possession ; a wonder in beauty and yet a sphynx 
upon whom the public could fix all imaginable 
dreams. And as people passed the booth of Camillo, 
where he sat watching over his fruit, often did they 
steal inquiring glances upon him, vainly endeavoring 
to decipher the strange psychic characters which were 
engraven upon that embronzed skin. But looking 
upon his soul through those flashing optical windows, 
whilst discerning the interior fire they were not 
aware of his luckless past which now slumbered in the 
molten cynicism of his memory. He hated mankind. 
In him the flame of youth, inspired by wild dreams, 
had been suffocated by the illest fortune ; and deep in 
his heart the embers of hate lay glowing. 

From out a full round head, in which there lurked 
a brain of no common power, sprang a mat of dark 
shaggy hair ; short and sprinkled with a few sprouts 
of gray. Two gold hoops, small but shining, gleamed 


The Mystery of Louise Poilard. 165 

in his ears, bringing- into fierce contrast the thick 
wrinkled neck, the cuticle of which had long- since 
turned to a prickly brown under the effort of incessant 
suns. Upon the little finger of his left hand he wore 
a plain gold ring. It had accompanied him through 
life. Perhaps within its secret interior it bore 
initials, awakening by times like magic, the gleam 
of a passing memory; connecting that life of his 
along its devious and sin-darkened course, like a 
thread of silver woven in sombre cloth. 

Such was the keeper of Rosetta. Into the hands 
of this human wreck she had fallen ; Rosetta the 
troubadour, a bird of Paradise wfth the voice of the 
Nightingale. 

In her, padre Camillo saw a possible fortune; and 
he exclaimed: Her voice shall serve me ! I have been 
beaten by mankind ; I have been their horse, their 
slave. I have fought in their wars ; I have dug in 
their mines ; but the metal was theirs and the con- 
quests I helped make built not kingdoms for me. 
I have been cheated and robbed. I have starved and 
wandered and starved. The world owes me redress. 
Fortune has favored me now, and I shall be no laggard 
in the acceptance of her aim. If the child has voice and 
music I shall attach that to her beauty ; it shall 
bring me thrift. Under every window and before 
every door shall she sing, till the ungenerous globe 
shall again be traveled over by my suffering and un- 
paid feet. I shall regain the fortune men have long 
kept from me. 

Under the ban of such decree began the career of 


i66 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

Rosetta. Her struggles like the bird in the snare 
were vain. The cords bound her and they were in- 
vincible. Thus they started forth armed with a 
great harp — Camillo to conquor the world, to regain 
the honors of the battle once lost ; Rosetta to chase 
those gilded visions of life, which vanish at our 
touch as melteth the golden clouds of morn, whilst 
swiftly climbs the sun of youth into the meridian of 
years. After a long and painful journey through the 
land of the slave, a vivid picture of which forever re- 
mained in the brain of the child, thrilling accounts of 
which in after years she could relate by the hour, the 
two arrived in St. Louis. Here Camillo put Rosetta 
under the tutorage of a French lady, who made a 
profession of teaching children for the minstrelsy. 

Despite those tearful reveries which by times 
would flit across her young mind, the infant, so 
sweetly named Rosetta, grew apace under the care of 
her instructor, and improved rapidly upon the few rudi- 
ments previously taught her by Camillo. Would she ever 
again see her father ? she would inquire ; and Camillo 
would repeat the oft told story that he had gone out 
at sea ; that he would be gone many days; that he 
would some day return and bring her presents. Thus 
was her guileless youth conjured back into equipoise 
and hope. Gradually that picture which for years 
had dwelt in her mind, began to fade under the insid- 
ious drug of absence and the ever recurring newness 
of her budding life, until it would seem to exultant 
Camillo that her memory had succumbed; for she ceased 
to revert to these things of her more primitive childhood. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 167 

And now began that roaming life only known to the 
troubadour. For ten years they wandered, visiting all 
those cities washed by the Mississippi, going some 
times far inland, looking for a time on great fields of 
cotton, stopping for a few days at town or village — 
the charms of Rosetta always winning many a silver 
piece from admiring throngs. Once they had come 
as far north as Pennsylvania, but the frosts of 
winter threatening them, back again far into the 
interior of Florida they retreated. 

CHAPTER XX. 

CASSI BIANCO. 

T T was after these many years of travel, and Camillo 
* one day finding himself getting old and slightly 
broken on the wheel of life whose revolutions had 
somewhat blurred his mind and shattered his frame, 
that the two, the old padre and his little slave, touched 
in their aimless wanderings the great hills which like 
bastions of war surround the old city of the Ohio 
Valley. 

It was a clear and beautiful day. A cloudless sky 
o’er canoping a smokeless city. East, west, north and 
south, were rolled back, deep and beyond the vision, 
those silent dun forms which like smoke from Hecia’s 
crater doom the city of the valley to her life of many 
gloomy days. As Camillo looked abroad over the city 
from the great airy height where he stood, he lifted 
his harp from his broad shoulders and breathed deep 
and long the sweet pure air of June. 


168 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


To the south lay the opposing* heights of the Ken- 
tucky shore, washed by the broad, silent waters of the 
Ohio river which stole in and out through the imposing 
hills. Below him in the valley nestled the busy urban 
life of two hundred thousand people ; the streets 
sharply defined, the steeples of churches and towers of 
factories jutting forth ; now and then the notes of a bell 
from some sacred tower, for it was Sunday and thous- 
ands were then at prayer. In the river Camillo plainly 
could discern boats with their black stacks thrown 
down and at rest. 

There was a buoyancy and a strange intoxication 
in the scene. He filled full his lungs with the pure 
atmosphere as it swept the green hills and stole upon 
him with its scent-laden wings. A splendid sun was 
sinking in the west. He listened and heard the low 
murmur of an organ in some sacred edifice. Calling 
Rosetta he addressed her in Italian, pointing out with 
his long, sweeping hand the features of the city most 
distinctly appealing to him. After a time, seating 
himself upon the ground, he unbuckled from his body 
a great leathern belt or girdle. Rosetta sat down 
beside him. And Camillo taking his grim old hat 
from off his head, half filled it with the gold and silver 
coins, which with a rush came from the mouth of the 
uplifted girdle. 

Again he arose and looked on all sides. Seeing no 
one he sat down, and one by one counted the precious 
treasure, replacing it in the eager mouth of the gir- 
dle. One by one disappeared the coins, with a chink 
and a ring rushing back into their dark home. Camillo 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 169 

kept count in Italian, Rosetta spake in English, and 
once said ‘ ‘ five hundred ” in French. Again replacing 
the belt about his loins and swinging the great harp 
upon his back, Camillo shot forth his long neck, as is 
the habit of the harp-bearer, and took steps down the 
steep incline. Rosetta followed close by him, casually 
twanging at intervals her battered violin whose notes 
laughed in the spring air like the struggling voice of 
a child. 

For Camillo, the life of the wanderer had ended. 
For Rosetta, a great day was fast approaching. 

The two, equally footsore from many a weary 
march, took habitation in a squalid settlement of 
that most inglorious part of the city designated as 
“across the Rhine.” Around them was that crazy patch- 
work of people picked from all nations and all climes ; 
those indefinable ones of the populous cities, who 
forgetting all bias which previously distinguish 
them, social, religious or national, huddle together 
for mutual condolence and comfort, whilst about them, 
uprising from the social sea of misery and dearth 
falls the everlasting surge of fortune in its mottled 
colorings of poverty, sin and death. Camillo’s anchor- 
age at this point was quite natural. For albeit, he 
had a girdle well filled with gold, yet had he become 
from his immense wanderings one of earths prolataire. 
He who in youth bore that spark of genius which 
might have mounted into statesmanship; he whose 
flame and ardor of youthful purpose had put his nervy 
hand into the sword-hilt and who had gone forth to 
build kingdoms ; he who would have built States or 


170 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

directed a government, had sunken to the mere Ices of 
life. 

Yet did he keep a few lingering ambitions alive. 
He hoped some day to return to Italy rich. In his 
long absence, party leaders had died and government 
had changed. The tyranny which had withered him 
and had smote his youthful fires was itself now, a dis- 
ease-eaten political dogma. He had nothing to fear from 
this score. Social theories arise and die with the age. 
Likewise was this becoming the fate of that social 
system which his youthful hands, under the banner of 
Garibaldi, had so vainly thrust forth to throttle at 
Genoa in 1834. But with wisdom in his present state, 
and stoicism for his fate, he muttered to himself when 
above him seemed to thicken the clouds — “ Does not 
Garibaldi, himself now make and vend candles for a 
living in an obscure corner of the globe? ” 

[Garibaldi was then manufacturing candles on 
Staten Island, N. Y.] 

Camillo was not long in his new home till he con- 
ceived a desire for entering into business on an en- 
larged scale. About him he saw many idle little 
“vags” of his own nationality, many of whom were 
clogs to the family weal, to which, by nature, they 
were attached. They were children of the extremely 
poor — that class of Italians who live in shambles, 
rookeries and hovels ; who look out upon the world 
from their high garrets, the smoky dismal world below 
them ekeing out a miserable existence, and thriv- 
ing in their way by begging, pilfering, rag-picking, 
paper-gathering, petty theft and the vending of fruits, 
matches and light trinkets. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


171 


Seeing this, Camillo conceived a plan. These 
little “vags,” these half-starved infant paupers he 
would unite under a single head, and thus their skill 
and energy should be his gain. An army of pigmies 
headed by a Goliath! The more the idea was weighed 
the more feasible became the outlook. But first of all he 
would open a fruit-booth upon a certain corner, which 
to his amazement had long stood idle and unoccupied. 

It was then summer. July with her scorching suns 
was upon the city. Camillo set about, putting his pet 
project into effect, and by the middle of the month the 
little booth had sunken its invisible roots into the 
pavement ; and into the great brick wall against which 
it grew it had clinched like the subtle hand of the 
ivy. There it stood, thriving, growing, smiling, and 
running over with its jolly freight of nuts, candies and 
fruits, all assorted and glowing in irresistible fresh- 
ness. It had come to stay. The endless throng, 
which, from early morn to midnight passed the spot 
would be juggled by the sweet scent from off those 
apples, figs, bananas, grapes, oranges, lemons and 
pineapples ; and the little Arabs who roam the streets, 
would be entranced by the flash of the inviting candies. 
So mused Camillo, and the dream was true. The first 
jet of steam had scarcely leaped from out the whistle 
of his peanut-roaster when a red-faced lad of 
his own nationality, forgetting all propriety and 
becoming at one leap the genuine American gammon, 
cried in a tone of provocation, “Look at the Dago!” 

The severe eyes of Camillo glanced from under 
their tufted canopies and the fixed cynicism of his vis- 


/ 


The Mystery of Louise .Pollard. 


172 

age darkened. But seeing at that moment the end of a 
violin projecting from under the boy’s tatters, and 
noticing the well rosined bow which was twirled 
about, marking as with a baton the waves of peculiarly 
satirical mirth with which the boy had colored his 
salutation, Camillo’s face slightly relaxed and he 
hailed him in Italian. The boy came forward with 
all the nonchalance of the inimitable gammon. 

“ Hidalgo! ” began the Arab, “ what are you good 
for? I have been watching this new development and 
I’se going to be the first of em that sets it a goin’.” 
And placing a dime in the crusty hand which was 
slightly trembling at the propitiousness of the act, 
the Arab gave his order for a bag of hot nuts, taking 
the balance in apples. 

“I see you are a musician, my bright little man?” 
inquired Camillo knowingly. His language was in 
Italian, for in the pair-shaped chin and the fine, large, 
dark eyes of the Arab he saw the unmistakable tokens 
of his own race. 

“And why does the Dago ask?” responded the 
Arab. 

“Because, I am somewhat of a musician myself.” 

“But,” added the Arab, his eyes twinkling, “you 
never beat the revelee like me, in the streets of Rome, 
under the banners of Garibaldi.” 

“Who are you?” inquired Camillo. 

“ That’s to say who are you?” quoth the precocious 
youth. 

Camillo turned to his fruit and began arranging 
the oranges. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollara. 173 

“My name is Cassi Bianco’” responded the Arab, 
at the same time munching* an apple. 

At that name so flippantly spoken, the eyes of the 
dark faced Camillo alig*hted with an unmistakable 
flame of aroused curiosity, and silent wonder. 

“Bianco?” responded Camillo after a moment of 
silence, his piercing* brow filled with scrutiny. 

“Yes, Cassi Bianco,” added the boy neg*lig*ently 
stroking* his violin, the notes of which g*ig*g*led and 
plinked their impudent interludes. 

“I am from Genoa,” added the boy, looking* 
straight into the face of Camillo. 

“ Genoa? ” 

“ From Genoa! ” 

“Your father was a mender of musical instru- 
ments? ” 

“He was until he became a Revolutionist, which 
led him to the scaffold.” 

“ Bianco! ” cried Camillo, unable farther to restrain 
his pulsing* emotions ; and in his lithe, sinewy arms 
he grasped the boy, crushed him to his breast, and 
lifted him hig*h in the air. 

“ Bianco! Bianco! ” added he, hiding the aston- 
ished face in the folds of his loose open shirt, and 
again binding him with his sinewy arms. “ No! no! 
you do not know old Camillo, the bent-backed old 
Camillo.” 

Cassi Bianco was a lad of fourteen. The early death 
of his mother and the execution of his father by the 
French and Papists had made him an orphan, and at 
the age of five he found himself crying in the streets 


174 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


of Genoa, without a guardian or a home. He was 
cared for by the Sisters of Mercy till he arrived at his 
eighth year. Finally the truant youth broke his fet- 
ters and lost himself among Garibaldi’s gallant soldiery. 
And when Rome was besieged by that terrible host 
against which Garibaldi held the ancient city in the 
face of such overwhelming odds, Bianco repaid his 
grim preservers with his spirit-stirring drum in the 
midst of military lead and iron and the roar of musk- 
etry. 

Under the retreating banners of Garibaldi, when 
the city had finally fallen into the hands of the be- 
siegers, he made good his escape to Florence where he 
was captured among many others, tried, but finally 
liberated in consideration of his youthful age. Fol- 
lowing the example of his illustrious leader, he came 
to America. Infant though he was in years, upon 
his shoulders was the valor of manhood. He united 
himself with straying players, and at the period we 
first meet him had completed a travel over the greater 
part of the Eastern and Southern States. In blood, 
he was closely related to Camillo, being the child of 
Camillo’s sister. His father, like Camillo, had been a 
Revolutionist ; but with a more tragic fate than that 
of the old padrone, he had suffered death for his 
espoused cause. 

When looking upon the uncommon experience of 
Cassi Bianco we can scarcely think of him as but a 
child. In spite of our efforts to thrust it back does the 
picture of manhood obtrude. Yet, when we reflect, 
that within the city of New York (in the year of 1870) 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


175 


by authentic statistics, there were ten thousand home- 
less infants, averaging* from five to fifteen in years ; 
all of whom, let it be said to their everlasting* giory, 
won subsistence and managed to survive ag*ainst 
their fearful fates, even thougii as it is recorded, 
“ their shoeless feet oft left bloody tracks upon the ice 
in the back streets and alleys as they emerg*ed by 
times to sell their small wares or pilfer a penny’s 
worth of merchandise,” when upon this we reflect, 
the story of Cassi Bianco is not so marvelous. 

After a half hour’s colloquy, the gist of which is 
given above, Cassi Bianco and Camillo parted ; each 
to perform his particular business of the day ; Bianco 
promising* faithfully to visit Camillo in his g*arret that 
same evening. And he kept his word. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

EE CONSERVATOIRE CAMIEEO. — ROSETTA’S EOVE. 

'"TURN we now to the other part of Camillo’s newly 
* concocted financial scheme. 

That same evening, by the assistance of the wise 
little head of Bianco, whose knowledge of the city and 
of the people was marvelous, Camillo matured his 
plan, and in a miraculously short space of time he 
gathered about him his infant retainers, some of 
whom had arrived at slight attainment under previous 
masters. Out of the motley throng, he selected some 
ten or twelve little boys and girls, armed each with an 
instrument and placed them all under the tutorage of 


176 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

Bianco and Rosetta, Rosetta being- mother-superior to 
all and supreme enchantress over the art of ballads, an 
uncommon stock of which, representing* every known 
or unknown human emotion from pathos to humor, 
from the trivially sentimental to the classic, she held 
on her tongue’s end. Under the guidance of these 
masters the class surpassed all previous records of 
latter-day conservatories. In less than a month each 
had been graduated in his particular specialty — violin- 
ist, accord eonist, harpist, mandolinist, etc., etc. 

The garret pealed and thundered. The rockery 
rang. It positively swelled and trembled with the 
cross-fire vollies of incessant music. Poor, suffering 
neighbors! They complained. They looked. They 
denounced, and some of them swore. When the con- 
servatorie pandemonium had unfalteringly progressed 
into the third week, Mrs. Cluben with astonishment 
mingled with rage placed her hands upon her hips, 
looked alo^t and cried, “ Mine Got in Himmel! ” 

But there was no rest. Such screams! Such noise! 
Such music! Such squalling fiddles! Such thruming 
harps! Such everlasting groans issuing from the 
many voiced, many colored accordeon! Such blasts! 
Such din never from chaos came! But this was thrift 
for Camillo. For many were the promising lads and 
many the promising lassies, in that select dozen. None 
were over twelve and two were slight midgets of six 
years. They were all Italians. There was Carina with 
her little accordeon, her dark dreamy eyes and silent 
face. There was Cavalcino with his harp, whose 
broad but nimble hand knew so well those mysterious 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


177 


string's. There was Krinkle, addicted to “sniping,” 
that is rescuing cigar stumps from premature decay, 
but whose wrist knew well the grace of the violin bow; 
he was only ten. There was Figaro, nicknamed 
“ Ribby,” — gone all to nerves, brain and bone but 
endowed with mysterious musical powers. And there 
was Creta" — sweet little Creta, with her glossy dark 
hair and Grecian profile, who next to Rosetta herself, 
there shall not another appear in this book more like 
the song bird. 

Camillo divided them into three and sometimes four 
attacking squadrons, Bianco and Rosetta acting as his 
aid de camps, whilst he himself sat calmly under his 
blue awning surveying from this safe retreat the proble- 
matic heroism of the day. 

In a short time the intellect of Rosetta, female and 
child though she was, evinced its powers over Bianco; 
even valorous, soldiery and precocious though he un- 
deniably was. To her was yielded by degrees supreme 
command. 

When in the evenings Rosetta came home, and with 
trembling step and aching back ascended the long stair 
and wound about the narrow passage-way till through 
the dim light she felt her way up to the garret, she flung 
her little body upon the bed exhausted. The duties 
devolving upon her had become too arduous for one of 
her years. In the morning she gave her orders and 
directed wisely the infant detachments in their inex- 
orable duties, flung her own lute over her shoulder 
and with a young harper attendant started forth to 
new exploits. In the evening when the strolling, 


178 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


hungry players came home there was a tempest. Each 
instrument must be scrutinized by Rosetta and accu- 
rately reported to Camillo the padre, who after admin- 
istering a sharp flogging to the urchin who had unluck- 
ily damaged his instrument ; or after he had plucked 
Rosetta by the ear for her compassionate silence and 
refusal to impeach her fellow troubadours, he would 
proceed to glue and mend. 

Missing strings must be supplied and in the morn- 
ing each instrument must be put in readiness for the 
next coup de main. Besides, there was cooking and 
innumerable household duties. Rosetta pined in the 
new regime which to the padre was accelerated thrift, 
but which to her had matured into the bitterest 
slavery. 

The mind is most reflective when the heart is sad. 
Rosetta gave herself up to brooding melancholy. Oh, 
that the good old days of simple troubadour life could 
again return! She longed for freedom. She sweltered 
in the garret, sleepless during the long, hot August 
nights. She had visions of fields, and brooks, and 
running waters and the great green woods whose 
shadows possessed for her an unspeakable awe. She 
saw children at play upon the green sward, and heard 
their bubbling laughter and long she stood with wist- 
ful eyes, peering through the latticed fence. Some 
times she wept, but again became moody and silent, 
smothering the discontent which glowed like embers 
in her breast. 

One day, unable to forego the temptation further, 
she approached Camillo timidly and supplicated for a 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 179 

day in the woods and meadows, the only holiday since 
her first hour of bondage for which she had prayed. 
Camillo answered her with a frown, and rudely shak- 
ing her, said “No!” 

As Rosetta grew older her beauty seemed increas- 
ing ; her voice was more entrancing ; the number of 
her songs had become comparatively endless ; and 
therefore had her worth finally arisen to a fabulous 
price in the greedy eyes of Camillo. He could only 
look upon her as his slave, and treat her accordingly. 
Every day lost by her produced a painful shrinkage in 
Camillo’s exchequer. She was the main-wheel in 
his now smoothly moving machine of business. A 
pause of hers detailed a delay throughout the entire 
structure. No, Camillo could not spare Rosetta. The 
golden sheaves, so long denied him were now falling 
thick and fast. He must garner them in unbroken 
haste. 

Besides, there was a change coming over Camillo — 
unseen by himself, but acutely perceived by Rosetta. 
It was for the worse. His long famished desire for 
money and fortune, had bred in him a passion ; and 
like those who have starved, his wild eyes gloated 
over the present spoil, and he fell-to, as a mad man. 
He became a victim to greed. 

As his silver increased, his fist tightened. As 
closed his fist, so closed his heart. In fact the grip of 
the former was but a reflex of the latter. From him 
fast oozed all kindness, all pity, all humanity. But a 
day was fast approaching filled with retribution. He 
did not see it, nor could have dreamed of it. But it 


180 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


was even then at hand. However, Camillo did not in 
any manner curtail the rich tawdry in which his skill 
robed Rosetta. Her showy colors dazzled with their 
unique novelty; the bead-work which glittered about 
her neck and breast, the gorgeous buckle upon her 
sash, the brilliant cincture upon her head, which set 
off the dark auburn tresses, were newly supplied when 
worn or faded. For it was with these she subdued 
and enchanted. But woe for Rosetta. She had fallen 
in love. 

She was but a child of nature — unguided and adrift 
upon the world. Untrained in social guile, free and 
untrammeled by the harness of conventional propriety, 
she had come but once within the circle of that sacred 
enchantment wherein young hearts breath for the first 
and but once of that ethereal element, so boundless in 
its magnitude, so subtle in its touch, so transcendant 
in its power. She had looked but once upon the fatal 
mask. For her, it was a day of fate. Yet sad, very 
sad was it — he whom she adored perhaps she could 
never meet. Far removed above her was he. It 
was a giddy height upon which she cast her longing 
eyes, a crested peak in the clouds, far above the 
slumbering darkness of the valley, in which she lived. 
But up there she saw the sun of hope who sat in his 
unearthly gold ; and she longed and prayed, that 
some day she might bathe her soul in the colors which 
painted the landscapes. Bitterly she saw the barriers 
which divided her from him. But secretly and unre- 
mittingly in her heart she nursed the fire of hope and 
kept alive those tender thoughts of young passion, 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 18 i 

more pure than lily blossoms sinking- and rising- with 
the evanescent waters. One look, and the imag-e had 
been fixed upon her young- mind — so open and free to 
the first touch of love. She could not resist her 
dreams ; in fact she did not try — she rather encourag-ed 
that vision which went with her into the street and 
returned with her as descended the evening sun 
sprinkling- her homeward path with buoyant light. 
By times she felt borne above the earth and floating 
like the down of a bird in the air. She had all those 
reveries of the pillow, which haunt the sleep of love, 
for through even the crannied homes of the most lowly 
enter those beatific visions. She heard the rustle of 
their wing's, she heard their whisperings, and she 
listened with g-uileless confidence to their rapturous 
stories. 

Yea, deeply had Rosetta fallen into the entram- 
meling meshes of love. Cavalcino was with her that 
day and carried his violin. She vividly recalled how 
she had mangled a half dozen notes ; but how the deft 
fing-ers of Cavalcino had woven their otherwise discord- 
ant fragments into a wreath of sweetness; how an unus- 
ual throbbing- about her heart had cut some g-entle 
quavers in her speech as she sang- the Italian ballad 
to him; how her eyes suffused irresistibly as the 
strang-e emotion swept from heart to brain ; how her 
voice had rippled and trilled as she had ventured one 
look deep into the eyes of him whose sorcery she 
could not understand, but to whose mystery she had 
yielded. All this she recalled — yea, cherished and 
pressed close to her heart. For it filled a void which 


182 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

nature herself had provided in her soul. Yea, for did 
it not warm into being, thoughts and dreams never 
as yet evoked by aught of nature? Had it not turned 
the great earth itself into a huge pantheon of sweet 
images? 

For a week she had been existing under the influ- 
ence of a spell. Would it ever die ? Could that vision 
ever fade ? She was but a child of nature, ignorant 
and blissful in the non-conventional air of unrestrained 
love. Therefore whilst she loved, true to the funda- 
mental instincts of her sex, she dropped all other 
earthly association and followed slave-like and un- 
questioned her ideal — if not in reality at least in those 
far more romantic fields, in the imagination itself. 
By times she seemed to lose herself in abstraction ; 
disdaining the rugged, colorless earth she arose and 
floated in the air. 

Yet had the spell filled otherwise with such de- 
lights, wrought upon her sensibilities, sharpening the 
anger of Camillo into barbed arrows, darkening his 
frown into a cloud whose presence shadowed and dis- 
tnrbed her vision — making less endurable her slavery, 
the yoke of which she now felt herself to have out- 
grown. She had become reflective in a single day. 
By a sudden transformation she was enabled to weigh 
her fortune. She cast a glance back far into the de- 
vious past, into the dusky shadows of the past, and 
saw there rekindled into life the image of her father, 
he whose memory she had long ago consigned to the 
dust of things forgotten. She saw again the cities 
she had entered in her wanderings. One by one arose 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 183 

her devious steps, from the indefinite darkness of 
memory coming- forth into the lig-ht of reality — out 
from the chaos of recollection. 

She had been exalted. She looked with keen 
sense upon the present. She projected her young- 
mind prophetically into the future, but nothing- was 
there for her save the unsubstantial vision of love, 
around the radiant form of which fell nought but 
night — and she brooded in melancholy. Wpuld she 
ever again hear him speak? Yea, would she ever 
again see him ? Had she not secretly traced his 
foot-steps to the gate ? Had she not seen him pass 
up the long walk between the heavy trees ? Had he 
not vanished — yea, vanished forever within the vine- 
clad portico of the house ? Had she not watched in 
secret for him — in silence where nought but her beat- 
ing heart was heard above all nature ? Poor Rosetta ! 
unutterably melancholy, under the enchantment of her 
ideal — transcendant in the affection she now so ruth- 
lessly lavished upon a shadow. 


184 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

BIANCO’S NECROMANCY. — THE HEART’S MARTYRDOM. 

ASSI BIANCO, who had been Rossetta’s attend- 



^ ant many times of late, whilst upon a day’s tour 
of music, had noted that in her face which led him to 
know, young as he was, that there had something 
gone wrong; and one day he accosted her in this wise 
— for Bianco was a remarkable boy : 

“ Rosetta, why do you look so sad ?” 

“Cassi, dear, see you around about us these great 
hills, and tell me how long I am to wander over them, 
gathering pennies for Camillo ? Can you read my 
fortune in my hand ? Padre says you are wise for 
one so young. Did you not learn in your wanderings 
some art by which we can read the future in the marks 
of the hand or in the chance of cards ?” 

They had been wandering over one of the great 
hills that flank the city on the east. It was late in 
the afternoon. The day had been one of tiresome 
wandering, and they were now seated in the shade of 
a hedge which hemmed in the rear of a spacious 
yard, in which stood a mansion of magnificent size 
and beauty, shaded by great elms, pine and cedar. 
Cassi had placed the harp reclining against the hedge, 
first covering its delicate strings with the brown worn 
cloth in which it was cautiously encased whilst at 
rest. He himself was reclining upon a grassy hillock, 
resting his head and shoulders against a stone upon 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. i85 

which sat Rosetta, who was casually striking- at in- 
tervals the tender strings of a lute, whilst dreamily 
looking far down the valley to a point where through 
the western heights the broad, glistening river lost 
itself between the hills. A few birds danced and 
twittered in the hedges, or alighted upon the ground 
near by, rattling the many colored leaves. Rosetta 
and Bianco were musing upon the long clouds of thin 
smoke which were passively stealing from out the 
many factory towers. They watched it rise silently 
higher and higher till it lost itself in the calm sky or 
swept majestically southward where it seemed to 
blend after many leagues with the far away horizon. 
They heard the distant sonorous notes of the steamers 
as lazily they plowed here and there, like minature 
things of life away down there in the river. They 
saw the flat tops of houses, the streets and alleys, 
like a vast checker-work below them, through the 
meshes of which passed and repassed teams and 
pedestrians, winding in and winding out like ants and 
beetles. To the south, cresting the Kentucky shore, 
lay the city of Covington. By times a wandering 
leaf, glittering for a moment in the sunlight dropped 
at their feet, for it was fall and a great harvest of 
twigs and many-colored leaves lay in shoals upon the 
ground. 

“Yes, Rosetta,” answered Bianco, “ I know an old 
Florentine who works many mysteries and makes a 
living by selling amulets, putting spells upon peo- 
ple and trading in charms. Give me your hand. No, 
the left. Let me study for a moment the line of life, 


186 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


the marks of art and those little elevations called 
Mars, Jupiter, Venus and Moon.” The dark, curly 
head of Cassi Bianco bent above the hand of Rosetta 
with the assumed skill of a seer. He could mimic 
the old Florentine both in words and action. 

“ There is the line of life, but it is broken,” began 
Bianco after the manner of the Florentine as near as 
he could recollect. “ Yes, broken. That is a tragedy! 
But how or when ? Let me see. Here is Fortune 
like the marks of two strings cut deep in the wrist. 
Rosetta you will be rich after a great struggle. Yes, 
Mars is large, but then here is Venus who keeps the 
mysteries over the heart, and at her left stands Moon, 
the Goddess of Love, which drives me into what old 
Staccato Mero says—” and he repeated it in Italian — 
“ Are you now, or have you ever been in love ?” 

Rosetta, looking upon the upturned little brown 
face, blushed deeply. She tried to hide the truth with 
a smile, but her eyes filling with a mist, she turned 
her head, answering, “Why, Cassi, do you ask? ” 

“I am a pupil of Staccato Mero, and this is the 
question he always asks when Mars and Venus threaten 
for here fortune takes one of two roads as Staccato 
says ; that is, it leads to the heart or to the head. If 
to the head it is wealth, if to the heart it is love.” 

Rosetta withdrew her hand and struck a soft cord 
upon the lute, following the same with a few words 
from a Spanish love ballad. Bianco, slightly vexed 
that Rosetta withheld the necessary revelation with- 
out which he assured her the wisest of sorcerers were 
powerless, glanced into Rosetta’s eyes where the mist 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 187 

had gathered into a perceptible dew ; and there he 
beheld the answer. For had not Staccato Mero once 
said ‘ ‘ in the eye of the maiden read you the token of 
her heart.” 

With the true instinct of the sorcerer, wishing to 
make more obscure his art, and thereby lend greater 
plausibility to his story, taking her hand again gently 
he began: “Ah, I see! Mero was a great man, for 
he said there is much in the eyebrow, the nose, the 
eyes, and the lips. Your lips are like red coral and 
you have pretty teeth, all straight, and so even. And 
then your eyebrows are raised in the center and thin 
and pretty as a pencil mark. Did you ever notice 
Padre’s eyebrows? They are thick and point up at 
the side. They are savage ; and, yes, your nose is 
what Mero calls Greek. Rosetta, did you ever look 
into your eyes? They are so large, and the brown 
spot in them looks like a deep well? I can see my pic- 
thre in them, like in a mirror. Now I will tell you 
the rest, for I can see it is the heart and not the head. 
You have a lover! ” 

Rosetta trembled, grew pale about the mouth and 
was about to speak. But Bianco went on. Glancing 
first at the mysterious marks upon the hand and then 
upon her pretty face which was awed into silence by 
the prophetic story— “ You are sure to have a tragedy. 
The line of life is broken! And as Venus shall triumph 
over Mars by the help of the Moon, your lover may be 
either taken from you by another, lost at sea, or he 
may go to war and be shot! Yes he is more likely to 
go to war and be shot than to be lost at sea, for Mars 


186 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

triumphs over Neptune — a little God, I had forgotten 
— Do you see him there? ” And looking again into 
Rosetta’s face which had blanched before a fate so 
accurately detailed by the now more than wonderful 
Bianco, the young wizard went on — “Shot in war!” 
— he shook his dark curly head, “Oh, Rosetta, you 
should be proud to have him shot in war.” 

“But I cannot, Cassi, I want him to live. Look 
again, Cassi, perhaps there is another little God you 
have forgotten.” 

Bianco buried his wise head again and apparently 
gave his soul into the cares of the mysteries. Rosetta 
was conquered. She was awed, and her silence, and 
pallor betokened that absolute faith which had taken 
hold on her. 

Bianco looked at her hand with wisest scrutiny, 
repeating a barbarous sentence of incantation whose 
grim and hipshot syllables defy all orthography, 
but the meaning of which to Rosetta was a chaos ob a 
hundred imaginings, all filled with bright, prophetic 
probabilities. Again Bianco sighed, as if worried by 
some over-powering mental contest. Grasping a tress 
of dark hair which fell over her shoulders he held it in 
the sunlight; plucked two dark shreds out by the 
roots, which slightly frightened his subject, who 
nevertheless stood more in awe of his wonderful pow- 
ers. He wound the hairs about his fingers then let them 
loose like zephyr in a little puff of wind which seemed 
conjured up for that very purpose ; watched the thin 
floating spirals as slowly they drifted, drifted far out 
into the ether of space and were lost in the unknown. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


189 


The last act in the conjuration was at hand. He 
walked some distance, lifted with grave pomposity a 
large stone from its ancient resting- place and snatched 
therefrom some object the presence of which seemed to 
shed appropriate light upon the subject and clear 
away for all the dusty cobwebs of doubt. He had 
certainly been a very close observer of the old Floren- 
tine ; for with an exclamation filled at once with the 
wildest, indescribable delight and weird prophetic 
cadence, his eyes filled to the brim with strange fire, 
his face wearing the distorted figure of one under the 
influence of something unearthly, he exclaimed in 
Italian, “I have it, I have it!” following the same 
with a repetition of the previous barbaric incantation. 
Then with solemnity he placed the object, which he 
had taken from under the stone at Rosetta’s feet. 

It was an immense snail, half incased within its 
calcareous house ; its two antennae and little head 
wiggling and darting here and there in unmistakable 
surprise at being thus used as the medium between the 
natural and the supernatural. To its side hung a 
piece of crystal quarts, the great value of which Cassi 
Bianco, filled to the brim as he was with the very 
stuff of necromantic genius, immediately seized upon 
and put to appropriate use, following in most scrupu- 
lous detail his keen imagination and all that he had 
ever seen or heard in the field of abstruce art or occult 
science. 

“Keep it! Keep it!” cried he. “It is valuable; 
it is the snail stone; Staccato Mero sells them for 
amulets. Keep the stone and he will not be shot in 


190 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


battle nor die upon the sea. Listen, for I know all.” 

“ Hush ! Silence !” cried Rosetta under her breath, 
at the same moment pointing’ to two forms which, un- 
seen by Bianco had come forth from the yard as if 
conjured into mysterious presence by the enchantment. 
One form turned for a moment and looked upon 
Rosetta, then arm in arm both apparitions disap- 
peared. It was Maurice Severgn and his friend. 
Rosetta turned to an ashy paleness, completely non- 
plussed, bewildered and amazed. 

It was enough. “Come,” muttered she, holding 
fast to her lute and the snail-stone ; and they started 
upon their homeward journey, for the sun was then 
sinking behind the western hills, and over the city in 
the valley below was stealing the long, gray shadows 
of evening. 

********* 

Several weeks had now elapsed since I had first 
experienced that flood of emotion aroused by the 
attentions which my rival had paid Rose Cimarron. 
During this time my being had experienced a change, 
though my heart’s passion had known no abatement. 
My resolution was of adamant. Rose Cimarron was 
too exalted a character — she had known the blessings 
of wealth, and though modest and plain in her daily 
habits, she had been raised in a palace. I cannot explain 
the feeling of solemn resignation which had taken hold 
on me. Perhaps it was a feeling like that experienced 
by the martyr as he stands firmly and without a quiver 
in the presence of irrevocable fate. The presence of 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


191 


Henry Blakemore had lost its demoniac enchantment. 
From my heart, the meanness of jealousy had van- 
ished. I knew my rival was a noble man. I laid not 
a straw in his way. However, there was another cir- 
cumstance which I will relate. 

Rose’s father was a man of profound learning - . 
During - the earlier part of his career he had spent 
several years before the mast. From the lowest pos- 
sible station of a poor sailor boy he had arisen steadily 
to the dignity of captain and was now a heavy share- 
holder in an ocean-line of steamers. He was also 
interested in silver mines which he told me were located 
in Nevada. His last ten years of life, however, had been 
entirely devoted to the life of an erudite. His pro- 
found learning - , coupled with his experience as a trav- 
eler, made of him a man of rare interest. Why this 
old g-entleman had conceived such a liking - for me I 
cannot explain ; unless it was for the intelligence I 
displayed in several branches of his pet pursuits and 
the honest interest I unconsciously manifested in his 
truly wonderful dissertations. 

Thus under the enchantment of this gray headed 
old man I frequently found the evening - hours slipping 
swiftly on into the late night. During one of these 
protracted interviews, it had chanced that Henry 
Blakemore had been entertained by Rose. During 
this evening, although the stream of conversation 
poured forth at its usual full tide of rarest interest, I 
felt the recurring shock of my heart sending its waves 
like a pulsing tide through my brain and at intervals 
mute abstraction paralyzed my tongue. It cannot be 


192 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

presumed that this escaped my wise host. The con- 
sciousness of my temporary inability became distress- 
ing and I arose to depart, but my generous host pro- 
longed my stay — taking me into secret apartments of 
his wonderful mansion, displaying to me the value of 
his huge library and explaining the mystery of his 
laboratory. When finally I bade him adieu, and had 
taken my departure down the spacious hall, Rose 
came from an adjoining room and met me. For the 
past half hour she had been entirely alone. “ I learned 
this evening for the first time,” she began, “that you 
talk of going to Australia? ” For a moment I looked 
into Rose’s face in mute reflection. “Not talking of 
it, but I have resolved,” answered I. “Is not America 
broad enough for you? ” lowly inquired Rose with a 
faint smile. “Yes,” pondered I, thoughtfully, “ yes, 
I could easily loose myself in the mountain regions of 
the West.” 

“Why should you desire to loose yourself?” 
inquired she, again smiling. 

The remarkable experience which from that hour 
fastened upon me shall be told in brief space. 

Time sped rapidly and the hour for my departure 
would soon arrive — the twenty-second day of May. 
The tremendous responsibility of my determined move, 
the fact that I was to sever my relationship forever 
from all that to me was of worth in my native land, 
had worn deeply on my mind. The insidious footsteps 
of a fever had also been making inroads upon me. 
One morning I awakened from a delirium. — “What 
are these things about me? ” inquired I of a nurse who 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


193 


sat by me. I listened for the trembling- of the ocean 
steamer upon which I was certain I had embarked the 
day before. 4 ‘About how many leagues at sea are we? ” 
My nurse looked intQ my face in mute pity. I turned 
upon my couch with a groan, for distinctly the trem- 
ors of the huge vessel came to my senses, and blue 
and vast the limitless waters seemed to encircle me, as 
on sped our majestic steamer steadily like a thing of 
life. After a time, again uneasily I turned and looked 
into the female face that had first greeted me. 
Between the phantom clouds that rolled before my 
vision I recognized that face. I gazed long and fixedly 
— perhaps with wild and terrible eyes. Suddenly, I 
was certain of my judgment, and I exclaimed: “ Speak, 
Rose — In God’s name where are we? ” 

The real waters of the ocean are not more impres- 
sive in their majesty of beauty or terror than can be the 
restless billows of delirium. No mariner has ever 
explored worlds comparable to those seen in voyages 
of the human mind. I was now in a hospital recover- 
ing from a fever and this was Rose Cimarron who had 
come to visit me. 

On the following day Rose was attended by her 
father. 

“My physician informs me that I will be strong 
enough to embark upon the sea within a month,” 
remarked I in the course of our conversation. 44 Would 
you not be as well pleased to take a trans-continental 
route via San Francisco? ” questioned he. I was silent. 
“ My interests in Nevada are somewhat disturbed. My 
acquaintance with you assures me of your competency 


194 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


to act as my agent. If you will accept the obligation 
I will pay you well for your service and furnish you 
with a pass to the Pacific Slope. You will be then 
three thousand miles nearer to your port x>f destina- 
tion.” 

Reaching forth my trembling hand and grasping 
his, I answered, “ I thank you! I will accept the obli- 
gation.” 

During my days of convalescence it gradually became 
astonishingly apparent to me that along with Rose’s 
admiration for the character of Maurice Severgn there 
was likely an ulterior motive in her inquisitiveness. 
Were the secrets of the Cimarron family anywise con- 
nected with the facts that I was revealing? The 
extreme likelihood of this was certainly foreshadowed 
in her questions. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE BEING WHOM ROSETTA EOVED. 

T^HE immediate and daily actions of man are mainly 
* directed by himself, but the action of a lifetime 
lies far beyond his personal control ; for there is an 
Infinite Destiny that directs the ultimate end of his 
being. 

Several individuals who had been unconsciously 
commissioned to produce an important future drama in 
the life of Maurice Severgn had already appeared near 
the orbit of his being. Rosetta was one of these indi- 
viduals. However, let us proceed. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard 195 

In the eastern part of the city of Cincinnati, in 
that locality which m those days possessed the most 
aristocratic coloring-, lived a doctor. He was now 
past the middle age of life ; a man of varied attain- 
ments and culture ; a man with convictions upon the 
vices of the times and with drugs and specifics for 
their cure. In politics he was a Radical of the North; 
that is to say, an Abolitionist. But more of this 
hereafter. He was a graduate of an eastern univer- 
sity, being schooled in the science of medicine in the 
city of New York, receiving his commission as a prac- 
ticing physician and surgeon as early as 1832. He 
was then but twenty-five years of age. Very early 
years indeed to be so exalted. Yet with an intellect 
surpassing his fellows he gained the prize of his class 
and along with it a chair as assistant surgeon in the 
Hospital of New York. This position he retained for 
two years, serving out his term, when like the youth 
of to-day he embarked for the West ; the then bound- 
less mysterious, awful West. All beyond the Missis- 
sippi an unsurveyed wilderness! Trackless, vast! 
Ohio, Illinois, and Indiana freshly carved from the 
great Northwestern Territory, foster children of the 
federal government, concessions from old Virginia, who 
with magnanimity had thus reduced her imperial 
domain from its original vastness to its present size, to 
conciliate her weaker sisters ; asking only the slight 
boon in lieu thereof, “ that she be allowed to hunt and 
recapture her negro fugitives in the land of the abo- 
litionist.” 

This young man had come forth into the outposts 


196 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

of civilization. Crossing the mountains — formidable 
obstacles in those days — he came to the Ohio river 
where he embarked and floated westward, his object- 
ive point being Cincinnati. He landed, and lived to 
see a village grow to the immensity of a city. Likewise 
during the time had he grown wealthy, and besides 
the latter he had gained the respect of all who knew 
him and had won the distinction of highest intellect- 
ual worthiness. This man’s name was Doctor Robert 
North. 

Doctor North had now become a man of experience 
and years. But did he not tacitly pledge us interest- 
ing revelation, we should not have occasion to thus 
again subject him 1o interview, except as it were, per- 
haps for the political colorings his character might 
lend ; for Dr. North was a politician ; as few strong 
men could well live in the midst of an uprising social 
revolution like the one in which he lived, without 
being affected with the contagion of the times. 

As might be surmised, there was a little romance 
attached to the life of Dr. North, as there is perhaps 
in every life. Prior to his departure for the West, his 
persistent appeals through proper official channels 
finally secured the release of F ather Jerome. Margaret 
was again placed in school and the old debtor began 
again to live. Through the instrumentality of the 
young man who was now far in the West, and most 
careful economy, Father Jerome crept along very com- 
fortably in his extreme age. Margaret never knew 
from whence came the money — but they lived, some- 
how, and were happy. Thus some five or six years 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 197 

slipped by. One day a very strong- and handsome 
young- man appeared at the home of Father Jerome. 
“ Marg-aret,” beg-an he, “ will you g-o with me beyond 
the Alleg-henies, far into the western wilds? We 
have laid out the foundation of a great city in the 
Ohio valley. We are connecting- the lines of commerce 
throug-hout the vastness of the Mississippi reg-ion to 
the Gulf. Will you g-o? I want you for my wife.” 

The unaided imagination can easily develop the 
remaining features of this picture, and fill in with 
appropriate colorings the time that thence rolled on 
till we find Robert and his wife Margaret many years 
after, at home in the city — the village which had 
finally grown till it had overleaped the boundaries of 
prophecy ; when the threads of commerce of which he 
had spoken, had knit together the cities of that vast 
valley which he had faintly outlined to her. 

* * * 

About the hour that Rosetta and Bianco had taken 
their departure down the steep incline of the hill 
which was finally to lead them into the busy haunts 
of the city, Doctor North was returning home from 
his afternoon calls among the sick. In due time he 
found himself seated in the surgical and library room 
of his beautiful home. 

“Robert, dear, you are unusually late this even- 
ing,” exclaimed Mrs. Dr. North to her husband in the 
evening when he had returned at a late hour. For he 
held his clinic at the College of Physicians and Sur- 
geons from three o’clock to four o’clock, after which 


198 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

he usually returned to his home where he met patients 
awaiting- him. 

“Yes, wife, but I was called out of my way and 
had to cross the river. Young Severgn sent his valet 
Belshazzar in haste, his mother being taken suddenly 
ill,” responded the doctor, whilst casually examining 
a slight embrasure of his left hand which an accident 
of the afternoon had occasioned. 

“Oh, serious?” inquired Mrs. North, who although 
wholly unacquainted with Madam Severgn, yet in this 
case as in all others showed a loving anxiety for her 
husband’s patient. 

“ Nothing serious — nervous prostration coupled with 
a local ailment, Margaret — oh, I see ! You were about 
to get it for me ! I was going to suggest a plaster for 
my hand !” 

“ What a sorry cut !” exclaimed Mrs. North, softly 
binding the dampened plaster to the hand. 

“I was not aware of its depth myself ! ” 

“A very strange family, the Severgns, Robert?” 
exclaimed Mrs. North, still binding the wound. 

“Puzzling indeed! and yet Margaret most inter- 
esting, very pleasant people !” 

“ I have heard much of them, especially of the son 
Maurice, I believe is his name.” 

“Have you met the Madam? ” 

“Not to speak with her.” 

“A most charming lady, Margaret, and in fact a 
wonderful personage! As well she might be ; recon- 
ing the character of her son. However, there is some- 
thing in her nature, down deep, and unreadable — 
something brooding. I fear it is melancholy.” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


199 


“Melancholy?” inquired Mrs. North. 

“Yes. And yet they are so well fixed. A valu- 
able estate, affluence, all the heart can wish. I cannot 
understand Madam’s reclusiveness. As for her son, it 
is easily explained. He is a persistent student.” 

‘ The wealth displayed by Madam Severgn in the 
purchase of so valuable an estate, and the trim neat- 
ness of the vassalage has ensured for her a position in 
the most exacting southern aristocracy.” 

“Four, slick black slaves, the choicest in the New 
Orleans market!” exclaimed the doctor, in a tone of 
endorsement. 

“But most astonishing it is, she makes no use of 
them. It is strange that one with the most pronounced 
advantages should severly abstain from the social cir- 
cles.” 

“Ah, Margaret, there is a cause, there is a cause. 
There is something which wealth cannot cure! I was 
never more sure of that, than at this call. There is 
an under note of pathos in the life of Madam Sev- 
ergn.” 

“ Poor lady! That is what I hear. But the world, 
prying as it is, has failed to reach the merest probabil- 
ity. As for myself, I have been endeared to her since 
I read the last article written for The Liberator by 
her son. Vivid, indeed beyond the usual powers of 
youthful writers.” 

The world had been indeed curious. And Mrs. 
North simply related to her husband in a casual man- 
ner what so many times she had heard passed concern- 
ing the Severgns. The world had said that Madam 


200 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


Severgn abhored ostentation. That was certain. Yet 
did she not go unnecessarily far in this? Ostentation 
in itself was not amiable. Indeed it was selfish. Yet 
for what purpose were chariots, liveries and negroes 
made, if not to set off as in a gilt molding the magni- 
ficence of their possessor? What was the function of 
those elegant bays which the fat slave-jockey groomed 
throughout the entire week? if not to herald fashion 
and wealth, to dazzle the admiring crowd, to add 
new lustre to the names of friends and relatives, as 
by a reflecting glass. Yet, Madam had no relatives, 
at least none had yet appeared. But were there not 
the Browns, the Potters and the Whites, neighbors 
and social lights in the bargain who would gladly 
exchange compliments? Why such a structure for a 
dwelling if not kept as the fashionable saloon for the 
elite? Thus pondered the world. Thus gossiped it, 
petulant and prying because Madam found pleasure at 
home and rapture in Maurice. 

When finally an indefinite description of the inter- 
ior of the Severgn mansion had reached the public 
ear, their curiosity knew no bound. “A vast library 
moulding in unuse! A gallery darkened and hid from 
the eye of the public! Why cherish it? Why not 
dedicate the entire outfit to an institution of learning? 
A veritable treasure, rightfully the public’s, but hidden 
and unused! ” But the world one day grew more con- 
siderate. 

“A perfect palace of art and a museum combined, 
Margaret! ” exclaimed the doctor. “ I saw paintings 
from Paris, etchings from Flanders and Munich, and 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 201 

some very rare works from Vienna. Nothing- to equal 
them in the West. A very emporium of wonder! 
Massive cabinets, filled with the rarest of antique 
specimens , a mag-nificent collection of stuffed birds ; 
American, Australian, and some indig-enous of the 
dark Amazon forests with flaming- plumag-e. All 
reports concerning- Maurice Severg-n are confirmed. 
Great cabinets of minerals! some precious stones — 
one larg-e room entirely devoted to g-eolog-y! Why, I 
believe the young- man has a specimen of every known 
rock under the sun! And there were the ores in the 
crude state fresh from the mines, nicely labeled. Rock, 
mineral and bird; with date and locality of discovery, 
name of family, species, order and g-enus marked upon 
them with as much tenderness as tlioug-h they were 
children of the household. I was entranced! Carried 
back to colleg-e days. . Thoug-h let me say, the collec- 
tion in the Severg-n mansion is scarcely rivaled by any 
institution of learning- in the land.” Mrs. North 
listened with wraped attention, for she was much of 
a specimen hunter herself ; thoug-h her tastes led her 
more directly in the line of the aesthetic. She had 
larg-e collections of pressed flowers, representing- the 
flora of the immediate neighborhood and many rare 
selections from foreign lands. She was well versed in 
botany, besides being- a skilled florist. 

The doctor continued, “I saw lava from Pompeii 
and a sulphurous piece labeled ‘Popocatepetl.’ One 
thing- very rare indeed was a nug-g-et of California 
gold, said to have come round by the Strait of Magel- 
lan.” 


502 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

One of the main features of a trip to the gold 
fields of California in that day — and one to be dreaded, 
let it be said — was the passage of the storm-beaten 
Strait of Magellan, and escape from the difficult rocks 
of Cape Horn. But the traveler was not forced to go 
by the ocean-way, did he dare a perhaps more hazar- 
dous journey over the trackless plains and across “ the 
Rockies,” threading his route by ox or mule team 
through bands of savages. 

“ Oh, yes! another curiosity. I saw a piece of 
pine bark from one of the giant trees of California. It 
was remarkable, being about four feet in thickness.” 

It was truly wonderful signified Mrs. North. She 
had read articles from the scientific journals of the 
times concerning these California giants, but was 
“truly happy to learn that the wonders of the newly 
acquired province were being brought East.” Cali- 
fornia, only a few years previous, being a province of 
Mexico. This led them into conversation upon the 
conquest of Mexico, and thence upon the politics of 
the times ; admitting with a slight grudge the wisdom 
of the slave-power which had with a few gallant 
strokes carried the eagle of the Republic to the Pacific 
Coast, and planted the stars and stripes upon the 
peaks of the Rocky Mountains. 

Doctor North continued. “One needs but to walk 
through those galleries of the Severgns, and become 
learned. The object lessons are all there. Besides 
the specimens which I have mentioned there were 
numerous charts ; geological, mineralogical, astrono- 
mical, botanical, historical, etc., etc. Indeed it is but 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 203 

a student’s paradise unequaled by anything- of which 
I have ever read or heard.” 

At this, the tinkling- of a bell announced that din- 
ner was ready. Dr. North and his wife retired to the 
dining- room, where the savory odor of the eatables 
greeted them. Seating- themselves alone at the small 
table as they had been used to do for these many years 
of their married life — they being- childless — the doctor 
continued talking-, whilst his wife poured the tea from 
a dainty china tea pot. “ I did not meet young- Sev- 
erg-n, but from the home of the erudite we can judg-e 
of the inmate.” 

“I have learned much of him,” added Mrs. North. 
“A very prodig-y of learning - ! Professor Sweetman, 
in casually remarking- of him but yesterday, declared 
him a wonder, the modern Eug-ene Aram — and in some 
respects destined to surpass that wonderful erudite, 
being- equipped with the exact science of the day and 
the resources for acquiring- learning- of which poor 
Aram never dreamed. It is scarcely comprehensible 
how one so young- could have acquired such a vast 
store of learning-. Yet it is said by way apolog-y, that 
Madam Severgn is exceedingly wealthy ; and her son 
having- had an overweaning fondness for science, and 
in fact all branches of learning flavoring of the his- 
toric or scientific, she has catered for his passion fondly, 
and persistantly. Each of them have traveled much, 
and the son being always provided with a private 
tutor, through whom a ceaseless current of learning 
has been kept fresh and clear at the threshold of the 
young, imbibing mind.” 


204 The Mystery oj Louise Pollard . 

“And yet,” added the doctor, “ it would not seem 
that his mind had been over fed. He is not of the 
book-worm type of students. He is tall and muscular. 
Handsome, in fact!” 

It may be well concluded that Maurice Severgn was 
no piece of human mediocrity, that he should form the 
basis of so extensive a conversation from such person- 
ages as Dr. North and his wife, the former of whom 
was an acknowledged scholar, and the latter, the 
brightest of intellectual companions. 

The meal had proceeded some time when the notes 
of a harp were heard gently tinkling, and presently 
was heard a human voice — that of a female. The 
doctor and his wife stopped their repast , and leaning 
easily in their chairs listened to the musical swells of 
violin, harp and song. It was an Italian roundelay, 
plaintive yet searching in its cadence. When at last the 
music had died down to solely the voice and harp, the 
doctor stepped to the door where he dropped a silver 
coin in the extended hat of Bianco. It was the last 
effort of Rosetta and her little friend to regain the 
loss occuring upon the flight of idle time upon the 
hill. They had added a quarter to their bag of coins. 
Rosetta betaking herself toward home, Bianco was 
entrusted to report during the evening to Camillo. 

And here let us turn to the final issue of that day, 
so eventful in the life of the girl. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


205 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

camieeo meets a dangerous acquaintance. 

TT was eight o’clock and merging into dusk. The 
* distant chimes in the far away steeple had struck 
the hour. Uneasily in slow measured tread walked 
Camillo beside his booth. Behind the western hills 
the sun had sunk and the shadows of night were fast 
creeping up street and alley. Upon the corners the 
street-lamps were glinting and the merchant’s windows 
were illumined for the night. Twilight was abroad. 
The blue awning of Camillo’s booth swayed by times 
in a just perceptible breeze. The flame of the torch 
danced and glowed and waved its banner of fire and 
smoke casting grim shadows upon the wall and over 
the various fruits and candies. Camillo sat down upon 
a low stool ; rubbed his hatless head, then chafed his 
stubbled chin whilst humming an old Mexican war 
ballad and looking southward toward the river — down 
into those streets where night had gathered in impene- 
trable thickness. The rich freight of the stand com- 
posed of figs, lemons, pineapples, nuts and candies 
spread its odor promiscuously about. The fire in the 
peanut-roaster had partially died out, and the steam 
came from out the whistle with a marked absence of 
that shrill noise which throughout the day had told 
the people of its industrious presence. 

For some unaccountable reason, Padre Camillo had 
made fewer sales that day than on any previous ; and 
his liver being likewise much disordered by a certain 


206 The Mystery Louise Pollard. 

incident of the day, he was now brooding bitterly 
upon a theme which was soon to ripen into a very 
dangerous cataclysm. 

It was about this time of the evening after the 
close of the day in which Rosetta had been brought 
closer and more irrevocably near to her idol by the 
wonderful powers of Bianco, that Bianco happened to 
be approaching the booth of Camillo ; he having been 
delegated custodian of the money purse which he was 
directed to carry to the old padrone. 

Having approached quite near the booth he 
observed Camillo and a lithe middle-aged man, whom 
he had seen cross the street but a short time previous, 
in conversation. The words were low and inarticu- 
late. Their heated emphasis, however, caused the 
precocious Bianco to halt. He was not seen. The 
words were given in Italian. His curiosity was irre- 
sistibly heightened by certain words which his 
acute ears picked from the otherwise incoherent 
utterances. Did he not hear the name of Rosetta? 
He harkened for his own name to be connected there- 
with, but heard in its place other words emphatically 
spoken which denoted the high temper of Camillo. 
He stooped down and crept beneath one corner of the 
booth protected by the awning, and bent his whole 
soul to the discovery of what was taking place. For 
his curiosity was enlarged by the fact that the stranger 
— for stranger he was to Bianco — was an Italian, and 
he had once been heard to say “ Mexico ; ” wherefore 
was it not possible that he bore relation to Camillo 
which it was worthy for Bianco to learn? Crouching 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


207 


low and peeping- through a small opening- he saw the 
redish beard and Celtic countenance of the strang-er, 
which denoted that he was an Italian from the North 
of Italy — the people of North Italy being- of the same 
blood as the Celts of Ireland and more related to these 
far-off island people than to the swarthy sons of South 
Italy. 

“Diable! Cavilazo,” exclaimed Camillo in a hot 
under-tone, looking- fiercely into the eyes of the Celt, 
at the same time clutching- at his own, breast as if 
stricken with pain at what had just been uttered. The 
flame from the torch lig-hted up the scene with a yel- 
lowish coloring- ; the long- shadows rising- and falling-, 
disappearing- and coming- as the capricious lig-ht 
danced upon its sputtering- wick. The Italian patois, 
so peculiar in an Italian’s rude attempt at English, 
was entirely absent in this conversation ; as both 
spake in well chosen Italian lang-uag-e. 

“You thoug-ht me dead? ” inquired the Celt. 

“It has been my dream,” responded Camillo — his 
swarthy face and tone of speech indicating- a bitter 
disappointment at the presence of the unwelcome 
guest. 

“Cavilazo,” began Camillo, “you need not refer to 
all these old transactions. They are of the dead past. I 
have — God knows I have fought against their recol- 
lection. My life is not as it was. I have forgotten 
the friends of my youth, for they were thieves and cut- 
throats. What will you have of me? 'Had we not 
parted for life in “ forty-five?” Did we not each of us 
take our course ; you for Cuba, I for the North? What 


208 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

debt goes unpaid between us? Did we not part as 
friends? ” 

“As friends. And friends we are yet, unless you 
choose to make us enemies. Camillo, had you failed, 

I had stood ready to share with you my last coin.” 

“Cavilazo, what I have, I keep! For none have 
shared the toil with me to gain it. I accepted the situa- 
tion. I went forth again, and I have been fortunate. 
I have built upon the small capital, the few coins 
given me. I, have thrived ; but look upon me, a broken 
down old man. You accuse me of ingratitude ; I have 
nothing for which to be grateful. You threaten ; I 
disdain you! Besides my accumulations will scarce 
suffice the wants of age. I can relieve, but divide? 
No! — this I will not! My money awakens no remorse. 
It is the rightful fruit of sweat ; not blood. Thank 
God I have no bonds with you. Thank God, I am 
through with knaves and rascals! No, Cavilazo, I will 
assist, for I have charity. But no further!” 

“ Have you forgotten the hour in which our solemn 
oaths bound us as brothers? ” 

“I have not forgotten it ; but I have foresworn the 
stipulation before the priest. I have repented me. 
Do not approach me Cavilazo upon these fading mem- 
ories. I have been absolved. I am not Camillo as you 
knew him in days past. Do not drive me to anger.” 

“I shall see, Camillo, what I can do,” exclaimed 
the Celt in a menacing tone. 

“ I give you leave,” replied Camillo, assured of the 
impotency of Cavilazo’s threat. * ‘ Do all in your power. 
My money shall remain my money! ” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


209 


“ Do you know this? the hand writing- of Aspero,” 
asked Cavilazo, bring-ing- from his vest pocket some- 
thing- which had the appearance of a crumpled letter. 

Camillo g-lanced upon the sig-nature — the letter 
being- still held by Cavilazo. “It is a forg-ery!” 
exclaimed he. 

“Not so fast!” exclaimed Cavilazo, bringing from 
the other pocket a small daguerreotype which glittered 
in the dim light. 

The quick eye of Camillo fell upon the likeness, 
and his face alighted with painful apprehensions. 
“Aspero!” gasped Camillo to himself — “Aspero,” 
reiterated Cavilazo, with stoic coldness. 

Camillo, overwhelmed, crushed and sickened by 
that which like the lightning bolt had fallen about his 
head, turned his back upon his persecutor with poorly 
assumed courage and indifference, then slowly paced 
toward his stool upon which he sat down in feigned 
composure and began cracking pecans, placing the 
kernels into a bright little whisky glass — his five cent 
measure for such viands. 

“Shape your own future, I can and will give the 
path you shall tread, ’’began Cavilazo. “ It shall have 
a gallows for its final end.” 

Camillo was observed to tremble as he placed the 
yellow kernels into the glass. “ I have saved perhaps 
three thousand dollars, Cavilazo,” began the broken- 
hearted but enraged Camillo, “ I will give you a 
third.” 

“ You have six ; and I shall have half ; besides the 
child—” 


210 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


“What would you do with her?” quickly asked 
Camillo, looking- up. 

“ Why, make some money at New Orleans, of course 
— sell her to the hig-hest bidder! ” 

Paralyzed with the calamity of the moment, but 
with eyes g-lowing- with vindictive rag-e, Camillo arose 
and reached for an iron awl which had been used for 
loosening- dates and breaking- candies. For a moment 
his eyes and teeth glittered in silence. He could have 
thrust the awl into the heart of his tormentor had he 
not at that moment viewed askance the form of a 
policeman who had been observing the while. Over- 
whelmed, he sank upon the stool, and burying his face 
in his hands he exclaimed: “ My God, my Rosetta! 
My Rosetta! My money, my Rosetta! Cruel, cruel 
Cavilazo! ” But soon he arose again, the gleam of his 
eyes now more frightful, and pointing southward with 
a significant gesture into the deep shadows, he glared 
upon Cavilazo whilst the inarticulate gutteral of his 
smothered fury vented his unspeakable rage. 

“Hark!” interposed Cavilazo, pointing signifi- 
cantly toward one corner of the booth, “is there not 
some one behind the awning? ” Camillo arose, quite 
as much agitated as his enemy over the possible pres- 
ence of an eaves-dropper. He hastened behind the 
booth. Too late! Man or beast, what e’er it was, 
scampered away through the shadows near the wall. 
Camillo gave chase, but the object darted into an alley 
and was instantly lost. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


211 


CHAPTER XXV. 

ROSETTA. 

| T was now merging* on to nine of the clock. Rosetta 
had come home at six. After her evening work 
had all been performed she seated herself upon the 
rear balcony., a rude piece of architecture in this case 
which served the purpose of affording the tenants of 
that flat the pleasure of escaping the hot air of the 
inner chambers of their homes during the sultry nights 
of summer. 

Rosetta was musing. She did not hear the din 
below her, nor see the dirty black roofs of the lesser 
buildings, the narrow back yard in which lay the 
usual debris of a refuse depository. Her mind, filled 
with lovely apparitions, resisted the squalor of the 
home in which she dwelt. She was now reclining 
comfortably with her head resting upon the back of 
her chair, her eyes dreamingly fixed upon the sky, 
where rolled the shining disk of the moon behind 
clouds made dark by the contrasting whiteness of the 
light which fell through their filmy floors. 

“How beautiful!” exclaimed Rosetta as she 
watched the moon cleave without a ripple the great 
blue sea of heaven. She saw the changing cloud- 
phantoms which floated there so silent and dark. ‘ ‘ How 
beautiful!” sighed she as she cast her eyes upon the 
stars of space— upon whose unutterable majesty has 
looked, and beneath whose mysterious force has sighed 


212 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


the love stricken hearts of millions. For love turns 
the sky into a vast mirror of sweet fancies, or perhaps 
a reservoir from which the soul draws its unearthly 
sympathies in that hour of hours when it transcends 
the natural and steals a glance upon the beyond. 
Rosetta’s heart was also deeply worried. Sometimes 
she ruminated upon the occurrences of the day. She 
recollected with some dejection that in the morning* 
she had lost a fanciful piece of brass and bead work 
which Camillo had bought for her sash ; and it dis- 
turbed her bright visions, for the padre would cer- 
tainly be angry. The cash receipts of the day had 
also fallen short a dollar or two, the fact of which not 
only gave Rosetta chagrin, but caused her to fear pun- 
ishment ; for she had lost fully two hours that day 
whilst listening to the strange stories of Bianco — his 
hair-breadth escapes, his capture at Florence — besides 
the unfolding of his more wonderful powers as a for- 
tune teller. But then did this last memory bring her 
back again to “him.” She had seen her idol. As 
under a spell he had arisen to view — had passed near 
her — had looked upon her! 

As her fingers now lightly touched the strings of 
the guitar which she held in her lap, and above, her 
eyes swept the starry space, she breathed into the 
night from out her heart the story of her love, sung in 
words of her own simple imaginings. She had 
unbound the glittering, metal cincture from her brow, 
and her hair fell in great waves upon her breast and 
shoulders. Her eyes were turned upward toward the 
far-away land of stars and night — her face and throat 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 213 

slightly whitened by the soft rays of the moon which 
fell upon her. From out her murmuring lips came her 
music unusually sweet and low ; for her notes were the 
exhalation of love. 

Poor Rosetta! Could she have known the o’er- 
hanging cliffs which frowned and threatened ; could 
she have dismantled them of their golden light ; how 
impassable, how dark with cavernous opening had 
been the landscape between her and her ideal! But 
she noted not the intervening valley over which yet 
hovered the impenetrable mists of fate which hid the 
possible path of disappointment or mantled the pit- 
falls of despair. With a bound her over-wrought soul 
passed the low-lands which lay outstretched indefi- 
nitely but surely at her feet, and upon the gilded 
heights rested her eyes soothed by the uprising orient 
of love and hope. For in its beams there was a mys- 
terious sweetness awakening emotions hitherto un- 
known. 

Suddenly, she heard the door open, and the unmis- 
takable tread of Camillo approached. He came to the 
door, looked upon her for a moment, then bade her 
prepare a light ; requesting her to retire immediately. 
But when she had looked into the padrone’s face, notic- 
ing there an unusual paleness, she exclaimed: “You 
are looking sick! ” 

“No, I am not sick — leave me, Rosetta. But first 
where is the money-bag? ” 

“ Did notCassi — ? Why, I gave it to him for that 
purpose.” 

“ I have not seen Cassi. Why have you done this? 
You have done wrong.” 


£14 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

Rosetta was silent. 

“ How much did you make to-day? ” 

“Two dollars in all,” answered she fearfully. 

“What, only two dollars?” 

“Yes, padre. We were without luck all day.” 

“ I have been without luck ever since I put you and 
your vagabonds into business! You idle my time. I 
scarce can keep you. How much did you and Cassi 
gain?” 

“Seventy-five cents.” 

Camillo was angry. He shook Rosetta. “What! 
You are an idler! There is something wrong with 
you here of late. No matter — there is an end of it!” 
exclaimed Camillo, taking a seat in an old chair. 

“End of what?” ventured Rosetta above her 
breath. 

“ Come to me, Rosetta! ” 

Rosetta approached curiously looking into Camillo’s 
face ; for upon his visage sat an indescribable some- 
thing which from the first had aroused her apprehen- 
sion. 

“Are the instruments all in?” 

“ They are.” 

“Very well. You need not go out to-morrow, I 
have sold them.” 

“Sold them!” There was a pause. “Not my 
violin and mandolin also? ” timidly inquired Rosetta. 

“No, I have saved them, for I thought it best. 
But you shall not need them where you are going.” 

Rosetta was startled at Camillo’s strange action. 
She was silent. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 215 

“Rosetta,” finally spoke Camillo, “get ready all 
you wish to take with you. To-morrow is our last 
day in this city. Come,, don’t look that way. ,What ! 
you have tears in your eyes !” 

Rosetta’s eyes were full, yet her voice was fairly 
under control. 

“Padre, are we not doing* well? I heard you 
tell Cassi we would all be rich some day!” exclaimed 
she with a perceptible struggle. 

“Hark! I hear a noise upon the stair. Come, you 
must leave me. I have a visitor.” 

“Tell me,” asked Rosetta trembling*, “where, 
Padre, are we to g*o ?” 

“It should matter not to you, since you are well 
fed and clothed. And your wish cannot be satisfied 
at any rate. It matters not. God only knows where — 
perhaps to Italy. But hark! Mind you say nothing*. 
I draw the money to-morrow. Come, hasten! Some 
one approaches. Listen!” They placed their hands 
to their heads but all was silent. Camillo, over- 
wrought and excited, had false imag*ining*s. 

Soon Rosetta retired, though with sickened heart 
at the thought of this sudden eruption which was to 
sever at one blow the fond dreams which had linked 
her mind to the idol of her heart. As she advanced 
slowly into the hall which led to her room she halted 
and looked sadly back by times like one in whose heart 
all hopes have been crushed. Noticing this, Camillo 
ordered her off with a stamp of his impetuous foot. 
She retreated down the dingy hall and came to her 
own room. When she reached her bed she fell upon it 


216 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

quivering, and wept. “Matters not! Why should 
it not concern me ? Have I not made all of this 
fortune ? Have I not followed him up and down the 
earth these ten years? I am well fed and clothed, 
therefore it should matter not where I am taken, nor 
what happens to me !” She buried her weeping face 
in her pillow. She lay there thinking — her crushed 
heart quivering and throbbing in agony. 

Presently she heard noises in the hall or stairway. 
It was the expected visitor. She heard Camillo order 
him seated. 

She listened and wondered. Suddenly she heard 
the latch of the door which led through the hall to 
her own room, being raised, and she divined that it 
was Camillo stealing in — perhaps to learn whether she 
had fallen asleep. She laid down and feigned slum- 
ber. She heard his tread soft and sly approach, and 
finally the dimly outlined face of Camillo peeped 
through her half open door and exclaimed in a low 
voice, “Rosetta!” She did not answer. He retired, 
and she heard the door close again, followed by the 
squeak of the bolts. 

Assured that she was alone, and aroused by the 
strange act of Camillo, she arose from off the bed and 
stealthily crept to the hall. Looking down its dark, 
long way she saw the pencil-like gleam of light from 
the adjoining room falling through the keyhole. She 
listened but heard nothing save indistinct mutterings. 
She crept closer. Long she stood trembling and 
breathing low, by times persuading herself that she 
had caught a word. Again she ventured closer but 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 217 

could hear only an inarticulate murmur. Finally she 
became bold and proceeded to the door, but softly and 
almost breathlessly. The possibility of being- detected 
g-ave her fears, and the knowledg-e of her g-uilty act 
was painful. She looked carefully throug-h the key- 
hole, and her eye,s fell upon the face of the strang-er. 
It was the red beard and Celtic profile of Cavilazo. 
He was undoubtedly talking* with Camillo, but the 
conversation thoug*h vehement and undoubtedly full 
of meaning-, was incoherent and unintelligible to her. 
She strained every nerve to hear. She could catch 
only an isolated word now and then, which was spoken 
in Italian. By times as she gianced throug-h the 
small aperture she saw the g-estures of Camillo who 
seemed pleading- earnestly with the strang-er. She 
listened and looked but in vain ! The conversation 
was too low. It was beyond her reach. 

Finally overcome with waiting-, and completely 
exhausted, she retired silently to her room, sat down 
upon her bed and beg-an to muse. Yes, she had seen 
this same man. She had seen Cavilazo. He had 
been about the booth for several days; and she had 
learned from the wise little Bianco that Cavilazo had 
at one time been a close friend of the padre’s but for 
some reason was an unwelcome g-uest. More than 
this. Cavilazo had business concerning- Rosetta, so 
Bianco had thoug-ht, for Cavilazo mentioned her name. 
What could it be ? Was it he who had driven Camillo 
into his intentions of moving- ? Why should the padre 
obey him ? She ruminated and mused. Suddenly she 
was aroused by the sound of hig-h words from the 


218 The Mystery oj Louise Pollard. 

lips of Cavilazo. Now was her time so she thought, 
and quickly tripping along the hall she again rested 
before the door. Placing her ear attentively to the 
aperture she caught the thread of the discourse and 
followed it with eagerness , now missing a phrase but 
grasping the idea till an intelligent conception of the 
conversation flashed upon her. She gasped when 
Cavilazo once pronounced her name. Indeed her frame 
quivered with apprehension. She scarcely breathed 
lest she should loose a syllable of that hot encounter of 
words, which like a serpent had charmed her. 

Though the conversation was in Italian, Rosetta 
understood it perfectly. “You have forgotten the 
time when I pulled you from under the cannon and 
bore your wounded body into a safe retreat. You have 
forgotten all of Mexico. You recollect nothing of the 
brigantine. But you cannot forget that Rosetta who 
has made your fortune for you, you owe to me. And 
you are most ungrateful in your hour of plenty. But 
recollect it — there is much you wish kept hidden! A 
word to Rosetta would uproot you. I am not proof 
against it. I may be driven to forget past relations. 
For ten years our faces have not met and you have 
grown to believe with inward consolation that I, Cavi- 
lazo, were dead. I who keep the key to lock or unlock 
your life , I who may open the door and invite the eye 
of the law! ” 

So spake Cavilazo. And the mute Camillo — his 
swarthy face drawn down with the morose expressions 
of the moment — looked upon the floor in silence. 
Camillo’s mind sped back over his past, the reminiscent 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 219 

land of disappointment lighted only by lurid crime, 
which fading at the approach of conscience left only 
a blasted heath over which he felt creeping the chill 
night air of blighted ambition. Through the fright- 
ful ruins of his past life, not unlike the bird of night, 
did his memory find its way. Through the grewsome 
ruins did it flit about on bat-like wings ; not remorse- 
fully — for Camillo knew not remorse — but with that 
opposite element of the soul, a savage joy for that 
which he had, and an enkindled bitterness that his pres- 
ent life of thrift should be disturbed; that the bright 
sun of fortune which after so many years seemed rising 
from behind the craggy horizon of ill luck, should be 
threatened by an ill-omened cloud. It is certain he 
could have slain Cavilazo, had he felt the crime a safe 
one. But the convenience had not yet appeared. He 
only longed for an opportunity. Besides, Cavilazo 
sometimes casually placed his hand to the back of his 
coat collar, where Camillo knew there was concealed 
a bright stiletto. 

“You would sell her? Very well, Cavilazo, but is 
she not young? ” 

“Not so young but that there will be jealousy among 
the bidders. She is well developed ; a promising 
figure ; knows nothing of her own secret origin ; will 
always deem herself but that for which she has been 
sold, by blood a natural born slave, rescued for a time 
and preserved from her fate by Camillo the Italian, of 
whom she knows less than of herself.” 

“My God, my Rosetta! Cruel, cruel, Cavilazo!” 
Camillo’s heart was writhing in agony. 


220 


The Mystery of Lonise Pollard. 


“What, you a murderer and a conscience fearing 
coward to boot! It seems a strange mixture, to say the 
least! Oh, you have been absolved! Perhaps you 
keep a half dozen priests praying for you, since you 
can so well afford piety. You scruple to sell human 
flesh ? Very well, I shall bear the responsibility. I 
have nothing to do with the act except so far as it 
brings me money. Camillo, it is not the act you fear 
but the loss, therefore mark it! It is my will! She is 
young as you say, granted! But she has warm life and 
affections. She is beautiful, can sing well, and she has 
passion; therefore she can be wooed, and the sale con- 
ducted in private.” 

“ Cavilazo, I humble myself before you ; for well do 
I know what you may do. I offer you a half of all 
that I have saved.” 

“I have counted on threo thousand dollars. My 
arrangements are for this amount. I must have it. I 
have pointed the way. You will concede this or I 
shall hand you over to the courts. If you like, Rosetta 
shall stand for five hundred dollars ; if not, you will 
make good the deficiency.” 

“ Leave me till to-morrow at twelve Cavilazo, I beg 
you.” 

“I have said what I shall do. You may act upon 
it by morning.” 

“I have intimated that perhaps I would go away 
soon. You can take advantage of this and in my 
absence do as you think best with Rosetta. Cavilazo, 
I will make good the remainder, and Rosetta shall be 
sold for that price, though if you will give me a year 
I will pay you one thousand dollars in place of her.” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


221 


“Perhaps I shall use her myself, but I think I 
prefer the proceeds of her sale in New Orleans; for 
there would be much risk in keeping’ Rosetta.” 

Rosetta stood ag-hast. 

****** 

Whilst thus the conversation between the Italians 
proceeded there was being- enacted an episode which 
was soon to chang-e the domestic economy of Camillo, 
and for a time at least frustrate the schemes of 
Cavilazo. 

When Bianco arrived at home he found that he had 
been anticipated by Camillo, who suspecting- that the 
party under his booth was no less than Bianco, had 
immediately closed business and proceeded with all 
haste homeward, hoping- to reach there before news 
could possibly be taken to Rosetta. When Bianco 
arrived, by the merest chance he observed Camillo pro- 
ceeding- but a few steps in advance of him. Halting- 
in concealment, after a time he observed Cavilazo 
following- the footsteps of Camillo. The news which 
he had stolen he reg-arded as of the most supreme 
importance to Rosetta, and thus was he hastening* 
with all speed to her. But now how would it be 
possible for him to g-ain her presence ? There was 
but one door leading- from the main hall to Camillo’s 
apartments ; and the first room was the one used by 
Camillo as sitting- room and dining- room ; therefore he 
could not hope to reach her by that means. He 
advanced, however, creeping- cautiously up the dark 


222 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

stair-casing-, ascending- three flights, when at last he 
arrived upon the floor where Camillo lived. Stealing 
along the long hall he came to the door in time to 
catch most of the conversation which we have just 
related. Astonished and overwhelmed by the auda- 
cious villiany of Cavilazo and Camillo, he trembled to 
think of the utter helplessness of Rosetta, who must 
now be locked within her room. He passed quickly 
down the stair and made his way to the rear of the 
building, hoping that perhaps Rosetta could be seen 
upon the balcony. Three times in undertone he 
called to her. Alas, there was no response. Then he 
tossed a pebble upon the fixture; but no reply. She 
was perhaps locked within. If rescued at all it must 
be in haste. Powerless and with no means of gaining 
her presence, he was in a frenzy at the possible fate 
of his little friend. He thought of handing the affair 
over to the police, but looking about, his eyes chanced 
to alight upon the rear of the adjoining building, and 
he saw that the glass in the windows of the lower 
floor were shattered and some were missing. 

Immediately he fashioned a scheme. He went up 
to the structure and by placing his hands on the lintel 
raised himself into the window. Looking into the 
dark interior he gave a low whistle to assure himself 
that the room was vacant. The noise came back with 
a hollow echo. To his right he discerned the faint 
outline of an old staircasing, then with assurance he 
leaped in. If his plans carried he would reach Rosetta. 

About the time Bianco was gathering the last sylla- 
bles which he had stolen through the key-hole from his 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


223 


concealment in the hall, Rosetta who was oppressed 
with the frightful fate which she felt fastening upon 
her, stood aghast at her powerless position. She 
thought of the authorities, but there was no exit! She 
clutched at her breast and stood horror-stricken at 
that which she knew not how to avert. She glided to 
a -door which she remembered led from one part of 
the hall to an adjoining room, into which she had 
never ventured — for it did not belong to Camillo’s 
apartment — but which she thought possibly would 
lead to some means of escape or deliverance. She 
turned the knob. It was locked! Her heart leaped 
and fluttered like a wild bird in a cage. She rushed 
frantically into her own room and stood there quiver- 
ing. 

It was at this juncture that she fancied she heard a 
voice. She was not certain from whence it proceeded 
nor by whom spoken. She breathed low and listened. 
It was repeated. Through the dull darkness of the 
hall it called, “Rosetta!” scarcely above a whisper. 
“Rosetta!” again repeated the voice. She stole to 
her door and looked. “Rosetta!” again came the 
whisper, and she gasped with af right whilst her eyes 
distended vainly upon the dark. “Rosetta, I am 
Cassi, don’t be scared!” She looked quickly up and 
saw a head at the narrow scuttle which led to the loft. 
It was certainly Bianco’s, and yet was it ? His eyes 
glared like those of a cat in the dark opening. She 
attempted to make reply, but the words could not be 
forced. His inexplicable presence was a shock, and 
for a moment paralyzed her speech. 


224 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

“Don’t be frightened, Rosetta, I am Cassi — but I 
have come to tell you something which will frighten 
you,” exclaimed Bianco in a whisper. 

“Oh, Cassi, how did you get there? You almost 
killed me.” 

“ It was the only way; and it is the only way you 
can hope to get out. Come, we must not talk till you 
are up here, then I will tell you.” 

At this Bianco disappeared, but in another moment 
Rosetta saw descending through the scuttle the end 
of a small ladder. Slowly and without noise it finally 
descended and rested upon the floor. She grasped the 
rounds and sped upward like a squirrel and passed into 
the loft. Grasping Cassi Bianco’s hand she was led to 
an opening in the roof through which both made their 
exit into the open air ; having first withdrawn the 
ladder from the vacant room and laid it carefully 
down within the loft where Bianco had found it. 

They came out upon the flat roof over which the 
moon-beams were playing. Rosetta’s luxuriant hair 
had fallen in disheveled strands over her shoulders 
and breast. Like a vice she clung to the arm of her 
deliverer, the daring, romantic Bianco. The tears of 
fear stood in Rosetta’s eyes. Bianco silently replaced 
the small covering to the oblong opening in the roof 
through which they had emerged into the air. 

“Rosetta, do you recollect the stranger I have 
spoken of — Cavilazo is his name ?” 

“Yes, Cassi,” answered Rosetta, quivering. 

“He has come to take you away. Camillo has 
given you to him and you are to be sold at New 
Orleans into slavery.” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 225 

“I know it, Bianco. I heard them talking* of me, 
and I was almost mad till I heard your voice and 
knew you had come to save me.” 

Had the crown of Italy alig-hted at that moment 
upon the brow of Bianco he could not have felt himself 
more a Prince. For a moment they glanced about over 
the dark, flat roofs of the neighborhood, noting here 
and there a sentinel-like chimney keeping watch in 
that moonlight realm of graveled roofs and fire walls. 
In the western sky there was an accumulation of 
tumbled clouds, but the light from the eastern sky 
was a vast hemisphere of stars. A meteor flashed 
along the horizon and died into the blue abyss. Below 
in the streets they heard the distant rumble of vehicles 
upon the paving stones, and at intervals arose the 
cry of a street urchin. Bianco leaped down upon the 
roof of the building through which he had ascended 
to the rescue, and extending his strong arms to 
Rosetta assisted her after him. He then led Rosetta 
to the scuttle in the roof. They descended and wound 
about through the unoccupied rooms, Bianco leading 
the way. After a time they found themselves at the 
window’ casement through which Bianco had first 
entered. 

“Stop! Cassi,” suddenly exclaimed Rosetta, grasp- 
ing his arm and looking him in the face, “I have 
forgotten my instruments!” 

The thought of this almost paralyzed Rosetta. 
Bianco looked about in perplexity. Finally he ex- 
claimed, “Come!” and soon they had descended upon 
the ground and disappeared in the darkness. 


226 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

During- this episode Camillo had been very busily 
engaged in settling his disagreeable account with 
Cavilazo. When the plans had been about completed 
Bianco suddenly opened the door and walked in. In 
his hand he playfully tossed a large knife, the blade of 
which was open. Camillo looked at him but said 
nothing. For the moment the spirit of the brigand 
had entered the breast of Cassi Bianco. He had 
come to get the instruments by strategy if possi- 
ble, or by force if necessary. In a few moments more 
he had swung the harp over his shoulder, and picking 
up the best violin he started for the door. 

“Where are you going ?” questioned Camillo, 
arising. 

“To play for some people.” 

“Where ?” 

“Where Rosetta and I played last week.” 

“Then Rosetta should go with you.” Camillo 
opened a door and called aloud for Rosetta. 

“Tell her I will wait at the foot of the stairs,” 
exclaimed Bianco, and he started for the outer door. 

“Bianco, stop!” exclaimed Camillo. “I want 
Rosetta to go with you.” 

Cassi Bianco’s frown was instantaneous as his eyes 
fixed themselves upon Camillo. 

Immediately Cavilazo seeing there was a question 
at issue, arose and cautiously walked between Bianco 
and the door. 

Camillo awaited some time in the silence, but 
Rosetta not appearing he advanced toward her room. 

“Rosetta!” exclaimed he in wrath, as he passed 
down the inner hall. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 227 

Bianco started for the door, but seeing the strong 
form of Cavilazo like a sentinel firmly fixed before 
him he halted, looking him squarely in the eyes to 
read his meaning. In a moment he removed the 
harp from his shoulder and sat it upon the floor near 
him. At this he looked about, for Camillo had 
returned. 

Camillo’s dark, rough skin had turned to a saffron 
hue. 

“ What’s the matter ?” exclaimed Cavilazo. 

“Rosetta is not here!” gasped Camillo. 

“It’s a lie!” fiercely exclaimed Cavilazo, at the 
same time drawing his stiletto — “Oh, Camillo, you 
can’t trick me!” 

Camillo stood erect and defiant. Blood began to 
return to his swarthy face. The dim light twinkled 
upon the small gold hoops in his e.ars. Fear was a 
stranger to Camillo’s breast. His nostrils now slightly 
quivered and his clinched teeth perceptibly outlined 
themselves between his thin lips as his eyes glittered 
upon the stiletto and finally fixed themselves upon the 
eyes of Cavilazo. There was a momentary silence, at 
the end of which Camillo’s eyes instantly — as if by the 
lightning of intuition — flashed upon the face of 
Bianco. “Wretch! thief!” cried he through his 
teeth — “ tell me where my Rosetta is!” He rushed at 
Bianco and clutched him fiercely by the throat. 

“Infamous trickster — diable Camillo!” wrathfully 
cried Cavilazo, with his stiletto poised in the air. 
Instantly all three had clinched. There was a strug- 
gle which led half way across the room. The wrist of 


228 


The Mystery oj Louise Pollard 


Cavilazo was caught in the vice-like grasp of Camillo, 
and the stiletto became momentarily powerless. Bianco 
was in some way entangled between these two terrible 
men. 

“For God’s sake, release me!” presently gurgled 
Cavilazo, wrenching his throat from the grasp of 
Camillo. “Bianco will murder us both — he has a 
knife!” But Camillo’s hand was fixed around the 
wrist that it held, like a cold rigid casting of lead. 
Both, however, were equally eager to get rid of this 
scorpion, and presently Bianco emerged from the fray. 
Grasping his harp and violin, he disappeared through 
the outer door. 

“Come! let us not kill each other like dogs,” 
finally exclaimed Cavilazo, “ there is evidently some 
terrible mistake!” At this, he courageously hurled 
the stiletto to -the far end of the room. Camillo 
instantly released his grasp and stepped back — but 
stood poised like a tiger ready to spring. 

There was silence. In a moment more Bianco had 
gained the street and was gone. 

Here and there upon the floor appeared small spots 
of blood. 

“Cavilazo!” at length spake Camillo, “I tell you 
again the girl has gone, and I know not when or 
how!” Both men looked into each others faces with 
mutual amazement. Presently Cavilazo unbuttoned 
his vest and tore open his shirt. Upon his breast were 
the dripping gashes made by Bianco’s knife. He felt 
a dizziness. He sat down heavily in a chair and 
leaned fainting and blind upon the table. After 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 229 

some moments, reviving*, he slowly raised his head. 
“Camillo!” weakly cried he. Camillo had g*one ! 
The lig*ht was out, and intense darkness in the room. 
The wild eyes of Cavilazo g*lanced here and there upon 
the inky space before him — “Camillo!” cried he, as 
he awakened to these facts. “Camillo!” yelled he 
ag*ain, arising* with his bloody handkerchief pressed 
to his wounds, and frantically feeling* his way in the 
darkness. “ Monstrous murderer! he has left me here 
to bleed and die. Camillo! ” 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

TWO FORTUNES. 

T T was not long* till the affairs of Camillo were well 
* known to the public. His fruit booth had changed 
hands as if by magic, and Camillo himself had sud- 
denly disappeared. Cavilazo was still alive, for his 
handsome form was frequently seen about the markets, 
theatres and public lounging* places. Cavilazo’s native 
shrewdness and years of experience in America had 
polished his speech and manners. To the eyes of the 
casual observer he had the appearance of a retired 
trader. He dressed well and lived without labor. 
Except to the experienced ear his lang*uag*e was 
entirely free from foreig*n idiom. 

As to Rosetta, her experience in the next few 
months, although of the most important character to 
her future career was not such as to require a detailed 
rehearsal. She had always been an object of solicitude 
in the minds of certain g*ood people who knew of her. 
Her misfortunes now evoked their particular aid. 


230 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

Thus it was that Rosetta one day found herself seated 
in a great parlor answering the questions of several 
kind ladies, who, scarcely realizable to herself, were 
displaying much interest for her welfare. They were 
not only searching out every fibre of her past career 
but they were projecting beautiful plans for her 
future! Rosetta listened and wondered, for she did 
not know that such kind people lived. When finally one 
of the ladies addressed her, “Rosetta, we think 
you are greatly in need of our protection.” Rosetta 
felt her heart start in her breast. Then the lady 
continued: “ If you wish, you may live with me for a 
time. I have no children Rosetta, and can easily care 
for you and train you in things all good women should 
know.” Rosetta made an attempt to reply, but tears 
filled her eyes. The kind lady did not wait for 
Rosetta’s words, but realizing the girl’s gratitude, 
motherly clasped her to her breast and kissed her 
tenderly. 

Thus had Rosetta come to a turning point in life. 
The lady who had thus interested herself in Rosetta 
was Mrs. Dr. North — Margaret, whose own childhood 
career had seen such suffering; for in such soil is the 
tender flower of human sympathy born. 

Mrs. North had no children of her own. Nature 
had denied her. Children are the blessing as they are 
the fruitage of marital life. Their absence to that 
household had been the fountain of much secret sorrow. 

Maternal love, that ever present spark of woman — 
that latent instinct which in the absence of children 
on whom to lavish its affection, burns into the aching 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 231 

heart itself — burned unquenched in the heart of Mrs. 
North, her affections more keen from their long* denial. 

“ What rapture in the kiss of children!” sadly ex- 
claimed she. “To hear them laugh and make the first 
vain struggle at the most high of human achievements , 
the moulding of words from the molten forge of their 
blazing little souls. Ah, yes! Even to wipe from 
their fretted cheek the strolling tear ; to hover angel- 
like above their couch of prostrating fever ; to lead 
and direct' their unskilled attempts ; to watch and 
wait for the first beam of their enkindling minds. How 
delightful to project into the dim ether of to-morrow 
the exalted hope! To dream of the probabilities; to 
fashion the castle ; to survey the problematic future ; 
to erect the defending barrier against fearful con- 
tingency ; to sweep with a glance the sea of life ere 
yet the sail be set!” 

Around the life of Rosetta clung a mystery, awaken- 
ing the most profound curiosity. She was an orphan, 
therefore was she pitied ? She was beautiful, and 
therefore was she adored ? She possessed both com- 
posure and brightness of intellect, and therefore was 
she admired ? Mrs. North looked into her eyes which 
Cassi had called “deep wells” in his admirable fash- 
ion, and there she saw the child’s gratitude gleaming 
through the mists. She clasped the pretty head in 
her arms and wept. The dream of life had idealized 
in Rosetta. 

The future of Rosetta’s life spread out before Mrs. 
North. She felt a renewal of life at the grand respon- 
sibility thrust upon her. The successive steps to be 


232 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

taken in the final development of that promising- g-irl 
quickly foreshadowed themselves to her prophetic 
mind. The schools, the musicals, the balls, the 
church, the entertainments, the fetes, the society, the 
g-aiety ; yea the lovers and a thousand other details of 
life. Through such a g-allery did her imagination 
take Rosetta. In Mrs. North, Rosetta the orphan had 
found a mother, and that mother, a child ; and in all 
Dr. North saw new charms for life. Time moved on. 
It was ever happiness to think of what they had done. 
Life had declared in their favor. A great sunburst of 
joy o’er spread them. The Doctor came home from 
his patients, and it was, “ where is Rosetta ?” When 
he went forth to his duties it was, “kiss me g-ood bye, 
my daug-hter.” And so the glad, new life beg-an — the 
woof of each day’s action woven full with this new 
thread of g-old. 

Rosetta was bewildered. It was like a dream — so 
unreal was all things. Awakened in the mornings by 
the reflection of the sun upon the gold-hued paper 
which adorned the walls of her room, or dashed by 
sunny beams from off the hanging pictures, she 
would startle and rub her brow to brush away the fog 
of indecision, like one under a spell of enchantment. 
The delicious sensation of domestic solitude, the 
silent movements of Dr. North pursuing throughout the 
week his many professional duties ; the callers who 
came in handsome liveries to visit Mrs. North were 
of course all new and strange to Rosetta, and each 
passing incident left a permanent impression on her 
fertile mind. Rosetta was placed in school, and every 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 233 

•advantage was given her for intellectual training and 
social polish. In this way four wonderful years 
glided by. During this time the duskiness of Rosetta’s 
cheeks, the warm imprints of the sun, had gradually 
faded into fairness, leaving however the red tinge of 
health more defined and delicate. Rosetta had grown 
tall and shapely. Her auburn hair had become 
longer and more luxurious. Her eyes had grown 
softer and deeper. Her Greek cast of head and face 
had always made her handsome, but she was now 
beautiful. During this time Rosetta had also become 
famous for her magical vocal powers, and she was 
sought for as are all bright and beautiful people. 

Cassi Bianco had not been without his fortune 
either. On the day following Rosetta’s escape Bianco 
boldly passed by Camillo’s booth. The padrone was 
not there! Little Creta was in charge. This was 
astonishing to Bianco. He must investigate. Creta 
clapped her hands for joy. “Cassi, I have been 
watching for you all day. Here Cassi, are the keys 
which padre says you must keep till he returns. And 
you are to buy and sell and take care of the money!” 

Bianco first looked doubtful into Creta’s Italian 
eyes, then putting the keys into his pocket he secreted 
his violin behind a case of oranges, seated himself on 
Camillo’s old stool and began to ponder. 


234 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A SKETCH OF THOSE TIMES. 

C INCE the hour of Rosetta’s escape, four years have 
^ now rolled by, and the hour for new developments 
in the Mystery of Louise Pollard has arrived. 

Maurice Severgn was seated in his library where 
he had been the greater part of the afternoon. A 
volume of Descartes lay upon the center table. It was 
opened at a page, the contents of which he had finished 
a few moments previous. An old map of the United 
States hung upon the wall. Upon this Severgn had 
been some time dreaming. It was an outline of the 
Republic such as it was just after the war with Mexico; 
the provinces of that conquered power being repre- 
sented upon its many colored face as prospective states 
of the thriving Union. 

The tea bell having rung, Severgn replaced the vol- 
ume among its fellows in an honored place among his 
loved philosophers of which he possessed a goodly 
plenty. After glancing about the room and over the 
many tiers of books, histories, biographies, sciences, 
books of travel, fictions, poets, etc., etc., which lined 
the walls of the great room of rooms in the Severgn 
mansion, Severgn came into the dining room below 
where he found Madam waiting. 

It was a beautiful May evening, and the scented 
foliage, which for the last few r weeks had been faith- 
fully putting on the green robe of spring, sent forth a 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 235 

pleasant fragrance ; for the home of the Severgns was 
a stately edifice set in a perfect bower of elms and cedars 
etc., fringed with a variety of small shrubs. After a 
day of intermittent clouds, the last rays of the setting 
sun showered down upon the city, glinting on steeple 
and window-pane. Falling through a window of var- 
ious stained glass the sun-beams diffused themselves 
softly throughout the dining room and sparkled upon 
the silver of the table. 

“ You had some trouble with Belshazzer this morn- 
ing? ” inquired Madam as they both sat down at the 
table. 

“Not trouble, mother,” answered Maurice as he 
arranged his napkin and prepared to take a slice of 
bread, to which a pretty slave octaroon was assisting 
him. “ Not trouble. I wish only to teach that fellow 
the royal prerogative of a free spirit — which attaches 
to the ancient splendor of his name,” added Maurice 
slightly in levity. “ I want him to learn self-respect 
independence and self-assertion — not arrogance — but 
greater dignity of bearing.” 

“Ah, my queer, generous boy, your charity extend- 
ing as it does to these creatures is truly magnanimous, 
but dear Maurice you can as well change Belshazzar’s 
color as teach him all you strive for. I, too, have a 
heart for the poor things, but I show it in a different 
way. They most need guidance and judicious correc- 
tion ; they are as children without minds, truly to be 
pitied, guided and directed. The blood of Africa can 
never be leavened with the spirit of the Teuton. It is 
sterile of that condition. Oh, perhaps after ages of 


236 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


continuous and uninterrupted development as your 
evolutionists say — ” 

“But I have noticed the spark of freedom in 
many,” answered Maurice. “Belshazzar was happy 
the day I handed him his manumission, and I can’t 
believe but that he has progressed some too. I observe 
it in his step, his gait and in his salutations to others. 
I tell him he shall not crawl in dust before any human 
being ; that he shall look up and walk firmly. They 
are a weak race and coercion has brought them lower. 
I am sorry to recall that I ever held other doctrine than 
this.” 

“ It is a magnanimous spirit, Maurice, but in this 
case slightly misdirected. You waste your time on 
them. They are willing slaves. Otherwise how could 
they have submitted so long and faithfully? Why 
does not our Martha and our Jacob cross the line and 
flee to Canada? Why do they not take their freedom? 
Have I not offered each of them their papers and told 
them, if so they chose they were at liberty to go to 
the land of their choice? Why does Jenny cling to us? 
A child of Teuton as well as African extraction ; loves 
music, can sing sweetly ; is as beautiful as any maid I 
have ever seen ; a face of perfect contour, warm and 
beautiful in color ; but God pity her, slightly tinted 
with the fatal pigment! ‘No,’ they say, ‘we are free 
as we can hope to be in all the world, and we want to 
serve Madam.’ And is not this the prevailing senti- 
ment all over the land? Wherever they are treated 
humane they would fight and die for the being who 
enslaves them, and who they can only look to as the 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


237 


future master of their children. Israel by Babel’s 
shore wept as did they also in Egypt ; but in America 
the tear of the slave has become a jubilee! True, the 
maltreated rebel, but that is but the animal instinct of 
self-preservation. They are born slaves! Do not mis- 
take mo, Maurice dear! I truly pity the being' whose 
only natural legacy is the yoke of bondage. It is a 
horrible malediction scarcely explainable, and yet it is 
unquestionably true.” 

“Ah, poor things!” sighed Maurice glancing upon 
the face of the octaroon girl who had just returned 
from the kitchen with a dish of steaming potatoes, 
“on the whole it is a miserable fate!” The slave 
returned the glance with an expression of unmistak- 
able intuition of the moment, then bent faithfully to 
her task. The sunlight glimmered upon the large 
gold hoops which adorned her ears and fell softly 
across her face, revealing that beauty whose exquisite 
texture in so many cases had made- many a less fortu- 
nate owner in those days the target of fowlest out- 
rage. 

“But I fear we shall pay for it in blood! The 
yoke must some day crumble ; and before long! ” 
exclaimed Maurice after a few moment’s silence dur- 
ing which they had both been eating whilst thinking 
of what had just passed. 

“Fanaticism will only pin the yoke more stub- 
bornly to the neck, Maurice. The South will not give 
up so valuable a possession without resistance. Abo- 
lition at all hazards, is rebellious against the order of 
the government and should be suppressed,” 


238 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

“ I have long 1 promoted the theory of colonization, 
through the papers for which I contribute ; but sec- 
retly, let me say I fear there can never be colonization. 
Already as a matter of fact war has been waging for 
several years. I fear Kansas and Missouri will some 
day see themselves duplicated on a ten thousand fold 
ration. Do you observe the clamor against ‘ the Dred 
Scott decision? ’ when people will no longer revere the 
edicts of the most solemn tribunal of the land there is 
time for much fearful apprehension. Already the 
crisis has seen a prophet in the person of John Brown. 
Fanaticism of the North has met fanaticism of the 
South at Harper’s Ferry. Beings of less consequence 
than Brown have heralded great revolutions. Already 
the more rank abolition journals point to him as a 
martyr. It is my opinion that the authorities acted 
very unwisely — considering the heated condition of 
affairs — to put Brown to death. However so much he 
deserved death, their act cannot be looked upon by 
the fanatical as but an example of brutality. I ven- 
ture to say since my return from the South — if worse 
does come to worse— that his death will become the 
war cry upon many a bloody field.” Then lowering 
his voice Severgn continued. “I cannot believe that 
the brutal indifference with which the slave dealer 
separates husband from wife, and child from mother, 
can much longer be endured by those whose associa- 
tions of life have not enured them to such scenes. It 
can’t be possible that this antagonism, daily becom- 
ing more defined geographically , can maintain within 
a common government. The South to-day would 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


239 


secede if she thought she could without blood-shed. 
And she may attempt it as did South Carolina, and as 
once did Massachusetts, if she is pushed to the brink. 
I had been studying the map when I heard the bell, 
and reflecting upon these things — and many more of 
which we have so many times spoken — I trembled with 
an intuition of the coming conflict as I glanced along 
that line marking the course of the Ohio. It is an 
awful state of things which has finally been conceived 
by the American People! ” 

“ Maurice,” interrupted Madam, “what has become 
of the slave you so rashly defended last week? I 
should have thought the moral opprobium attached to 
deeds of that kind would have warned you from any 
such undertaking. The act was truly magnanimous, 
but in it you risked the reputation of a life.” 

Severgn’s face slightly flushed — “Mother, hark — 
here is his story. He was the same black whom I once 
told you I had seen swimming the Ohio River. Yes, 
it was Vulcan. After some four years he had been 
again recaptured at Detroit, having been decoyed 
across from Canada. He had been bound and thrown 
like an animal for the slaughter into an old vehicle 
prepared for the occasion and hastened away. They 
had been on the road several nights and days ; little 
food was provided. After many days they arrived, 
exhausted and half dead with hungar. In this con- 
dition Vulcan had been brought into court — the chains 
still fastened to him. As he raised his head and 
looked sadly about for signs of human mercy, he met 
the cold and pitiless gaze of the bystanders, and 


240 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

again his head fell and his eyes rested upon the 
chains that bound him. 

“ God deliver us from such a fate! A vision arose 
before me. I thought of the slave-pen, the post, the 
block, the chains, the sugar mills of Louisiana, the 
cotton fields of Texas, the loathsome negro hut, the 
daily pittance of the slave’s life. I heard the cries of 
sisters, the pitiful sobbings of old men, the supplica- 
tions of mothers ; yea, the frightful pageantry of the 
entire system in its horrible detail passed before my 
sight ; and trembling with a horrible inspiration of 
the moment I stepped forward and begged the court — 
who was to pass sentence after the farce was played — 
‘what if the prisoner at the bar be a free man?’ Of 
course I met but the frown of that being who 
stands for justice, and there was a silence. I thought 
of the opprobrium of which you speak, but mother I 
felt more keenly the grief of the slave when in response 
to my voice he bent his eyes for a moment upon me.” 

“Ah, well dear son, I don’t know but you did 
right after all ; but you know what the world thinks 
of people who defend negroes. They can not hope to 
gain recognition from the better classes. But I am 
proud of your courage — fearless to speak for the down- 
trodden even in the face of such prejudice!” 

“This morning in the jail I heard Vulcan’s story 
entirely through,” continued Maurice. “ He had been 
legally manumitted in the State of South Carolina, 
where he had paid the sum of fourteen hundred dollars 
for the privileges of a freeman. After this he had 
spent a few years working at his trade as a blacksmith 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 241 

at Savannah. He had amassed some property and 
started for Georgia, where he says he went to buy the 
freedom of an only sister. That when en-route he 
was suddenly set upon by armed men, who gagged 
and pinioned him and carried him away. His manu- 
mission papers were destroyed and his money — some 
eight hundred dollars in all — taken from him, then he 
himself was handed over to others who took him to a 
slave auction. There, despite all entreaty, he was 
again sold into slavery— that he escaped and for a 
time lurked in the East Tennessee mountains and 
finally found his way to the North. And here it was 
that his story became interesting to me, and will be 
equally so to you. Believing much in his story and 
desiring to sift it out, I offered my personal bond for 
his return to court, and prayed the court for a few 
days that I might send to Savannah and search the 
records for evidence of his manumission. This prayer 
was utterly ignored, and the slave given into the cus- 
tody of the claimant.” 

‘‘What has become of him?” inquired Madam 
Severgn. 

“He has been taken south with some twenty 
others. This morning I gained a moment’s conversa- 
tion with Him upon the false plea of a desire to pur- 
chase him from his master. In that conversation I have 
learned a few of the strangest things that possibly 
could be well imagined. In fact the whole affair has 
so filled my mind that I have not gotten away from it 
since that time, and I meant to unfold it to you as soon 
as opportunity offered. In this interview I first 


242 The Mystery of Lonise Pollard. 

recalled to him the meeting" we had near the bluff at 
the hour he was accidentally first seen by me. He 
had forgotten my face, for he said I had changed very 
much. I had grown a mustache. But suddenly the 
entire episode flashed upon him and he grew confident 
and spoke freely. I inquired into his past history. He 
said he had always been known simply as ‘Vulcan’ — a 
very appropriate name considering his calling in life 
and his uncommon strength, as he is a giant. His 
first master was a cotton merchant in Savannah, 
whose name was Pollard.” Here Maurice halted to 
read the effect of this revelation. 

“Pollard!” exclaimed Madam Severgn doubtfully, 
for she was completely aroused. 

“Yes, Pollard, but this was not all,” answered 
Maurice. “Tell me something of this Pollard and 
his family asked I. For a moment the slave looked into 
my eyes in a questioning sort of way which I did not 
understand, but which heightened my anxiety. He 
told me there we two brothers of them, ‘ James and 
William,’ said he after a pause. Yes, answered I 
with assumed indifference. Both brothers were in the 
cotton business he said. Were they an old family 
of the city of Savannah ? asked I. ‘ They were,’ he 
replied.. I have no particular object in inquiring into 
these relations, said I. He then told me that James was 
kind enough to grant him his freedom after paying 
for it in extra work, which lasted through the nights 
and odd hours of seven years. 

“ What became of each of them ? asked I. ‘ Both 
are now dead,’ answered the slave. ‘James died 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 243 

suddenly and William is supposed to have died of 
grief.’ 

“Grief! thought I, and yet dared not show the 
least sign of anxiety. Did William have any ser- 
ious loss ? asked I casually, whilst I evaded the 
sharp and strange glance of his eyes, fori knew there 
was something which he did not wish to relate. ‘ Yes, 
a sorrow,’ answered he, hanging his head in medita- 
tion as if recalling the whole affair. ‘ Poor Maser 
William, poor Maser William! It was a dark day for 
him when the news came. You see he married when 
away off in Verginny, anddeys great deal of trouble, 
though no one suspecten but what she was a lady. 
Poor Louise! Poor, poor Mistus! When he heard 
that she’d guine away Masser William, he just ’peared 
to sink right down.’ 

“For a moment my struggles stifled my words, and 
a thousand different anxieties arose. What became of 
Louise, his wife, asked I — forstalling the name of 
William Pollard’s wife with assurance ; for the hint 
had been sufficient. The slave answered my remark 
with silence. What became of her ? again I enquired, 
perhaps revealing the emotion which now. possessed 
me. 

“ ‘Well Masser,’ entreated the poor fellow with a 
look of grief in his face, ‘ please don’t be inquiren too 
far — but den I ’spose its all over in all dese years slip- 
pen by. She went away, and Masser William he died 
of a broken heart, as dey all says.’ 

“Did she ever return? asked I. There was no 
response, but there was something in that face, 


244 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

though black and that of a slave, which made me 
halt. I then reached down for this locket, sprung the 
catch and held the picture before him. My eyes were 
riveted upon him, and I marked every motion and 
slightest change. For a moment he gazed upon the 
picture, then suddenly turned to me, his face wearing 
an expression of profound astonishment. ‘ Who be 
you ?’ he inquired. Severgn is my name, replied 
I. This somewhat quieted him, and casting his eyes 
upon the ground he gave a deep sigh. At this the 
loud voice of the dealer was heard, and in a few 
moments more Vulcan was hastened along among his 
fellows who were all manacled to the same chain. I 
followed him a few steps but in vain, for he was soon 
lost to view. I then spoke further with the dealer, 
but there was no time to parley, for the boat had 
already moved slightly from the mooring, and was 
making haste to depart. I then secured Vulcan’s 
number and requested that a record be kept of his dis- 
posal, and as I have the address of the dealer it is 
likely that in the future I may learn of his where- 
abouts.” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollards 


245 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


MAURICE SEVERGN. 



1R a few weeks, Rose Cimarron’s father began 


** gradually to impart to me the business I was to 
transact in the West. During- this time Rose’s admir- 
ation for the character of Maurice Severgn had become 
very pronounced. Every detail of his student life was 
of interest to her. However only a brief sketch of 
our rather leng-thy discussions upon this phase of his 
character can here be related, although they were the 
source of my keenest enjoyment during our long and 
pleasant drives, in which we indulged as my days of 
convalescence wore on. 

jjc 

Although Maurice Severgn was an intellectual vol- 
uptuary, a very prodigy of learning for one of his 
years, it must not be presumed that he omitted any of 
those habits of life which are vital to a healthy, 
physical organism. He enjoyed long walks and 
drives, amusements and exercises of the muscles. He 
labored for hours among the shrubs, vines, trees and 
rare floral displays of his home. His laboratory, 
being a vast private shop of chemicals and mechanical 
appliances, also called forth at times laborious exer- 
cise, bringing into play every nerve and fibre. Severgn’s 
physical development was therefore of no ordinary 
character. As his hygienic customs were most rigidly 


246 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

observed his vigor of body was insured. He was 
therefore also a beautiful specimen of physical man- 
hood. 

His character however possessed one weakness — 
the phase of which is more or less pronounced in all 
students, namely, the love of knowledge solely for the 
rapture he experienced in its daily acquisition. But 
the thinkers and students of the Nineteenth Century 
are not apt to become recluses and impractical scholas- 
tics. So intensely practical is the atmosphere of this 
modern age, and so essentially permeated with the 
scientific have all things become, that there is nothing 
within the reach of the human mind but that there is 
a call for it by modern society. 

Except in particular cases however where chance 
had spied out the authorship of a few venturesome 
discussions written for a popular periodical of the 
times, the power of Severgn’s intellect had not as yet 
been felt. His geniu$ here and there had begun to 
sparkle. Would it ever glow ? Heaven spare him! 
Must those silvery dreams ever fade? Must that 
exalted nature ever bend ? 

It is with trepidation that we advance to the truth! 
Before us in the dawn of this new life are the elements 
of a storm. When shall that tempest break which for 
so long had been gathering about him ? Shall the 
pine be withered by the lightning’s blast, be uprooted 
by the tornado, or shall it stand unshattered and firm ? 
In the lightnings which shall play about his head, 
perhaps we may read the legend of Louise, glim- 
mering in the fatal clouds. However, let us proceed. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 247 

Madam Severgn herself was a rare being*, and in 
the growth of Maurice she had spent her uncom- 
mon energ-ies. It was with wisely directed eyes that 
Maurice had looked upon nature. The practical with 
the idealistic had been judiciously ming-led. He had 
visited many climes and countries. He knew in a gen- 
eral manner, by practical association, many people. 
He had been within every metropolis of Europe. He 
had bent his ear to the music and the drama of Paris, 
Berlin, London and Vienna. Their g-alleries were 
ling-ering* pictures within his brain. They were the 
garniture of many of his dreams. 

During the entire course of his life however he 
had felt an unquenchable thirst for philosophy and the 
natural sciences. This phase of his nature grew to 
an uncontrollable passion in Berlin, where he had 
been fascinated by the enchanting lectures of Hegel. 

How limitless in space, how beginingless in time 
was that vast book into which he had for the past 
several years been looking — the book of all profound 
nature! Before its unnumbered pages he felt himself 
but as a lisping child. 

Would the primer of nature be e’er passed by him ? 
pondered Maurice when upon the immensity of his 
task he looked. Yea, task so voluptuously sweet that 
life could not stretch out to that day when it should 
become an irksome duty to continue his survey of 
nature. “Vast book of nature! ” exclaimed he. “We 
look upon thy multitudinous leaves, thy pictured 
folios, thy pageantry of life and death, thy ceaseless 
coming in and going out of existence, thy whence and 


248 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

thy whither until mind itself be choaked and clogged 
with the immensity of thy unravel able wonderment! 
Nature! sublime sea of limitless expanse, thy serf 
beats upon the Eternal! Look we for thy horizon? It 
is a phantom, moving as we move. Stand we beside 
thee, and the uncovered brow of reverence is shadowed 
by thy presence mysterious. Think we of thee! — it is to 
resolve into dreams and meditation before the awful 
pageantry of things, whilst by the soul sweep the 
queer faces of thy limitless ages, thy eras vast, where 
the years are but the click of thy pendulum in the 
stupendous machinery of matter! The hard fought 
battle of human life, man’s ills, his happiness, his fond- 
est hope, scarce can claim the brevity of one poor hair’s 
mark upon thy infinite dial. He who seeks thy 
mystery seeks that which he shall n’er find ; but thy 
sea shall moan to him its everlasting dirge ; the stars 
shall whisper their love ; each hill and vale shall 
yield their legend, and the countless tongues of earth 
shall breathe a music in the ear ; and life shall be well 
spent, though uncrowned.” 

Severgn had begun to rightly measure the limitless 
field before him. He had provided himself with maps 
and charts and books. He had purchased and gathered 
together an uncommon treasury of natural specimens. 
He possessed* a laboratory equipped with the most 
approved instruments of his time, several of which he 
had collected in France and Germany. Earnestly and 
heroically had he begun the work of life. 

Appreciating that the mind should not be clogged 
with a solitary occupation of any kind, be it ever so 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 240 

pleasant, for diversion lie devoted many hours to his- 
tory, and being- a lover of art he cheerfully took to 
music and the drama as a recuperative element in his 
life’s regime. 

Thus had this life, beg-un; how should it end ? 
Perhaps after many years of research, a new philoso- 
phy should be expounded. Should he be crowned as the 
sage or must that light go out in one awful eclipse ? 

Being quite reclusive he was at this young age 
misunderstood by the world. Already that veil which 
settles about the life of the student had begun to drop 
about Severgn. Public inquiry pricked up its ears 
but could hear nothing. Speculation was set afloat 
but could arrive at no fixed conclusion. The hand- 
some form of Maurice Severgn as it passed in and out 
of that silent mansion became a study, until one day 
the public were awakened to the truth. They had 
called the mansion a useless collection of dead and 
meaningless relics. They wondered at that anti- 
quated store house, those nameless relics and stony 
formations; those weapons of bronze and stone, those 
rocks and minerals, those charts and maps — “Why 
sleep they in their dust ? Is the world wiser or better 
for these dead things ?” 

Vain, vain speculation. Within those labvrinthian 
deposits there presided a genius ; a spirit, wrapped in 
the mystic robe of the seemingly occult, who in 
silence paid them visits and in the hour of devotion 
came to them as the devotee to his shrine ; came to 
them, those fossil children of the past, those embalmed 
relics of life when all else slept — when the solemn 


250 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


doors were closed against the boisterous hum of the 
worldlings ; came to them, the departed, stood by 
them as the aged pine among the tombs holding 
strange converse with the murmuring air and sable 
shade, the tombs and lamps^of night; came to them 
and talked with them across the lapse of time. 

“For the student there is no death, ’’once remarked 
Severgn. “All is a moving ever changing condition. 
The seeming grave yards of eternity pour forth their 
everlasting legends. The fossil is frantic with the 
long ages of its voiceless tomb. Hark! Is there not 
a ceaseless whispering, up-pouring from the vast realm 
of earth? Awful has been the struggle! Tremend- 
ous and unthinkably sublime that passage from life to 
death and back again to life! Is there not a voice in 
the vale of labyrinthian time, a whisper when the 
breeze is low and sways the sighing leaf, when spring 
treads blushing o’er the hill, when autumn breaks 
golden o’er the globe, when night winds sigh hear 
you not a strange music as of many voices, dim, dist- 
ant, plaintive, unutterably sublime breaking upon the 
mystic ear of thought ? Oh, children of the past! ye 
who peopled the earth long ago, whose numberless 
sepulchres, cemented and conjoined have built the 
continents and separated the waters of the seas, how 
quite important are ye in the masonry of the earth, 
how equally exalted were your lives to the vaunting 
estate of man! Time — the awful iconoclast, who 
touches as with a fatal wand the magnificent fabrics 
of an eon whilst vast kingdoms fall in ruin, and says 
to the Silurian, you lie here, and the Devonian, you 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


251 


lie here, and to the Reptilian and also to man, this 
throughout all enduring time thy grave shall be, 
kills not the soul ; nay, rends' not the womb of 
his own existence. But each particular creature leav- 
ing its ruin, sad as it may seem, upon the infinite 
beach — as some broken hulk deserted where beats the 
billows or glides the arctic gorge — he forthwith trans- 
fuses into new life.” 

From out the cataclysms of nature came forth these 
legends of earth to Severgn. It was the story of an 
infinite force in its sportive creations and destructions 
amidst hopeless matter. Thence, the voice he heard 
moaning eternally throughout all time as tolls the sad 
notes of the buoy-bell when storm rides the wave. 
This, the whisper he heard, the everlasting legend 
of nature plaintively singing in rock and tree and the 
deeply dark strata of earth as sang ancient Pan in the 
bows of the forest. 

Yet to him what infinite procession their lives 
revealed! Where now rolled the hills in green had 
stood fathoms of water. Mingling with the roots of 
the grass lay the numberless sepulchres of a host of 
vanished life. “Whither has gone the force which in 
ages past peopled those stony tenements? Whence 
and where now the being who peeped from this shell? ” 
Thus he questioned and dreamed. 

Was it strange, that Severgn, when bending his 
ear upon the seeming silence of the inanimate, heard 
there a voice of unutterable plaintiveness? Before the 
wearied story of nature he stood enchanted. Before 
its great truths he felt his soul enthralled and fixed 


252 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


in awe. From the deeply dark and mysterious past 
came a voice as from a grave. He listened — and 
within the machinery of matter, he seemed to hear the 
hum of its tremendous wheels! 

At intervals the curtain which hung - between him 
and the sublime drama of nature seemed to rise ; but 
it was for a moment — a glimpse, and the darkness 
which lies' beyond again closed down upon the stage, 
that infinite board whereon is played the tragedy of 
matter and the farce of man. 

No, this strange collection lay not in dust and idle- 
ness. This mansion was the camping ground of a 
great student — Maurice Severgn. 

The world as yet had not made his acquaintance- 
ship. A peculiar sanctity hedged about those antedi- 
luvian and pre-historic reliquaries, but in their midst 
walked by times a being who knew their names and 
listened with reverend ear to the story of the tiniest 
creature and humblest form among them. 

How strange the calm, prevading such repositories! 
How still the speechless fossil! How seeming dumb 
the stone, and voiceless the mineral! How composed 
that piece of pottery ; this bone awl ; this flint point ; 
this ax of granite ; this weapon of bronze! How cur- 
tained the sleep of the mummied relics! How profound 
their sleep! Cautiously among them we glide about 
as though walking amid forgotten graves ; lest a care- 
less tread may disturb the repose of the silent dead! 
If perchance we speak, it is with reverential whisper. 
Should some stray piece of ancient vace, some lugub- 
rious fossil be touched by gliding fold of skirt, or 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


253 


awkward hand, the offended image falls to the floor 
and a voice like that of thunder roars upon the 
affrighted air. 

Whence the pervasive solitude of such repositories; 
this silent and introspective awe ; this mysterious calm 
which comes o’er our spirits ; this twilight-broken 
gloom, whilst from unseen lips ushers an echoless 
hush? It is the spirit of nature’s ancient crypt steal- 
ing o’er us. Within those ubiquitious pulsations our 
silence is involuntary. We feel an humility in our 
hearts — within the conscious vastness of things, we 
feel an awe! The planet upon which we live becomes 
but a grain of sand ; our hearts pulse, but the puppet’s 
valve in action ; our bodies and our minds, but com- 
plex machines driven irresistibly by a mysterious force 
not more exalted or divine in consistency than that 
which opens and closes the lids .of the bivalve upon 
the sea beach. We look out upon space. It is vast ; 
it is measureless! We know our own insignificance, 
and our spirit shrinks within us as we feel a sense 
unspeakable. Words fall powerless from our lips; we 
can only stand in awe, for within us is the birth of 
reverence before the majestic. We sink into a trance 
of devotion at the shrine of profundity — the only 
idolatry worthy of man. We look upon the suns, 
planets and satellites, and through the vista of ages 
see slowly arising and accumulating the strata of the 
earth. We mark the advent of life, vegetable and ani- 
mal ; we view the rise of man, his struggle with ele- 
mental nature, his struggle with fierce beasts, his 
wars, his triumphs, his defeats, his trial at govern- 


254 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


ments, his failures, his vanities and sorrows ; the rise 
of religion and superstition, the increasing triumph of 
mind over tremendous odds, the rise of art, the first 
appearance of the smith, the mason, the birth of 
cities, their destruction, the stages of civilization and 
their climaxes, and finally the dust of decay, which 
triumphing over all, hides and destroys the fondest 
works of man, until the foot prints of his most exalted 
undertaking are hidden in chaotic 'sand. Alas! we 
hold our hands to the sky and cry aloud for more 
light, for that delirious something, the touch of which 
translates our being. We feel our body needs neither 
meat nor raiment, we open the windows and very 
sky-lights of our soul and inebriate ourselves with the 
divine essence of wisdom. In the midst of these 
things we maintain a silence ; and breathless at our 
ears our spirit waits- to catch the waves of truth. Be 
we but coarse clay, no sound comes forth from the 
seemingly dead images about us. We go forth into 
the day and raise a clatter about so many pieces of 
stone, such and such meaningless names. 

But, Oh ! how different to him who has learned the 
strange language of nature ; whose senses have been 
refined by converse with her laws! To him when 
lights are dim and the curtains have been drawn there 
proceeds a voice, infinitely fine but vast as space. To 
him the crynoid speaks of the seas, the ancient seas, 
those departed waters of earth which rolled in 
the dark and awful days of the past. This stone tells 
a fearful tale of fire, and ages of heated vapor. This 
one groans, as from it comes the story of fathomless 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


255 


darkness and measureless eons. And all the fossil, 
both leaf and animal, have a tongue for him. This 
rude stone ax with its vicious blade speaks of wars 
and battles in days of savage man, when might was 
right. This crude bronze knife, with corroded face 
tells of primitive man, marking the first appearance 
of the smith, the worker of metals. And this pottery 
— how well it withstands the hand of time! Upon 
its face are written the legends of a primitive race 
now forever vanished. And this awl, this bone needle 
— what hand of wife, or maid, or lover plied it in the 
rude skin garments? What the song she sung — the 
words she spoke? Was it in tears she wrought her 
domestic care, or did joy possess her? They all have 
a story from the mightiest to the tiniest. 

Nothing is small or insignificant in nature. All 
from her workshop is stupendous! And when man — 
mighty man (?) — vaunting, proud and glorious, stands 
beside the atom, how vast is that enigma which like an 
impenetrable veil, misty, dark and imposing, hides it 
as in a mantle of night ; lies forever between him and 
its secret! 

It was into this sublime stream that Maurice 
Severgn had plunged — this fathomless, boundless sea! 
Having few real cares, he allowed himself day by day 
to float away upon the boundless blue depths, until at 
times he felt his very soul, like that of Buddha whilst 
fasting amidst the Himalayas, drawn from out the 
fog of earth, upward toward the zenith. 


256 


The Mystery oj Louise Pollard. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

A SUNDAY EXPERIENCE — 1860. 

I T was ten o’clock by the distant chimes. For hours 
1 the streets had been thronged. In fact since early 
morn Christians of various denominations with Bible, 
prayer or hymn book in hand could have been seen 
slowly strolling to the various shrines of worship in 
either of the two cities. Bells were ringing. Chimes 
at intervals poured out their holy acclaim. Car- 
riages, handsomely caparisoned horses, and the gen- 
eral pharaphernalia of an American Sunday was in full 
display. Hundreds of people were passing from city 
to city by way of the ferry boats. Likewise at the 
shore calmly awaited a river transfer , her black 
stack quietly smoking, giving now and then two or 
three thundering churns with her stern wheel to keep 
a close hug to the mooring, whilst throngs of passen- 
gers hastened over the gang plank and distributed 
themselves about the boat, seating themselves on 
straight-backed chairs or leisurely leaning upon the 
railing, looking over into the dark stream and amus- 
ing themselves with distant objects in the river. 
Steamers were lazily moving here and there and the 
shout of negroes could be heard as they rolled the 
heavy bales of wares about, unloading a vessel, on the 
opposite shore, regardless of Sunday observances. 

“How do you do, Severgn?” saluted a young man 
who had just passed over the plank, observing 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 257 

Severgn seated in a comfortable chair near the balus- 
trade. 

“ Severgn, have a cigar? ” 

“Thanks, Mr. Rolf, I have just smoked.” 

“Who do you hear to-day?” inquired the friend, 
lighting his cigar and casting* the match into the 
water. 

“I have forgotten his name. He is from the far 
South — preaches a special sermon by request of some 
slave faction of the church upon the text of ‘ Slavery, 
a God annointed political regime.’ ” 

“ Ha! ha! ” laughed Mr. Rolf. 

“ But he will turn us all over it is said! ” 

“I am no bibliologist, Severg-n, therefore can’t 
say!” 

“Well, it will be a patch work from the patristic 
fathers, the g-rand old book asphixiated, the Bible with 
its head in the stocks! ” 

“How g-oes things, Severgn? I have been buried 
in business — up to my ears in hogsheads of tobacco the 
last week and have slipped my cogs on news.” 

“Renewed outrages in Kansas. Thunderings at 
the North, mutterings in the South, and a general 
social fermentation all over.” 

“Do you think it is growing murky in the social 
sky? ” 

“Rolf, there needs but the match to blow up the 
magazine.” 

“By the way, I saw you at the Grand last night. 
How did you like the Moor? ” 

“A superb production! I have but the sincerest 


258 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


admiration for Edwin Forrest. He is the wonder of 
this age. But say, less of the Moor and more of the 
people! ” 

“Ha, ha, ha, Severgn! I knew there was meaning 
in those opera glasses,” cried his friend jocosely. 

“Well, Rolf, I admit as much,” responded Severgn 
as he carelessly cast a straw into the water. 
“Who was she — I mean she in the proscenium 
box to the left, with pearl and gold-mounted opera 
glass — white kid gloves — dark auburn hair with 
diamond brooch gleaming on the side — a — -” 

“ Short sleeves, pretty little hand, a beautiful eye 
— oh, delicious, elegant, charming, yes, ha, ha, ha! — 
Oh I knew the dart would strike home some time!” 
interrupted Mr. Rolf, slightly at Severgn’s expense. 
“ Sings like a bird, plays with the touch of a 
master! ” 

“You have met her then?” inquired Severgn 
inwardly piqued at the good fortune of his friend. 

“I can’t say that I have had that good fortune. 
But I have been nearer to her than you were last 
night. I have heard her voice though and flatter 
myself that I shall not be long in gaining her 
acquaintance.” At this the conversation dropped into 
quiet. The boat was felt slowly to gain the center of 
the river, rolling and gently undulating as it pro- 
ceeded. F inally the gentle clang of the bell announced 
the presence of the Ohio shore and all on board pre- 
pared to land. 

“Rolf, I would be pleased with your company,” 
said Severgn. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 259 

“Thanks, Severgn, I shall attend you. I would 
like to hear a good sounding sermon on that subject. 
Not that I have any hopes of hearing a conclusive 
argument, but I love to see them twist themselves 
into the contortions of their sophistical theories! You 
know Shakespeare tells us that ‘ the Devil may cite 
scripture to his own purpose! 

Severgn and his friend landed and proceeded in the 
direction of the Presbyterian church, in which the 
pro-slavery evangelist was advertised to expound 
the holy lids upon the subject then disturbing the 
popular mind. Advancing under the bows of the 
great locust trees which at that period lined the street 
near the church they finally caught up with the throng 
which was filing slowly into the huge auditorium. 
Carriages and vehicles of many descriptions stood 
about disgorging their occupants. Cabmen in rich 
liveries were directing the handsome horses of private 
turn-outs ; the beaded fancy work of the ladies glist- 
ened in the morning sun; afresh cooling breeze stirred 
their ribbons and tossed the handsome plumes of their 
head-gear. Gold-headed canes flashed in the gloved 
hands of men and perfume arose from their handker- 
chiefs. Birds sang and the air was full of pleasant 
spring light. Miniature fountains played in the front 
yards and the grass sent forth a pleasant odor. 

By times was heard the name of the minister who 
was to deliver the sermon of the hour. Short racy 
comments were being passed upon him, complimentary 
and otherwise. As might have been expected there was 
an unusual throng at the sacred portal when the bells 


260 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

were tolling- their final acclaim from the resounding- 
belfry. 

The “Dred Scot Decision” had but a short time 
previously been liberated from the hig-hest court in the 
land, and its thunders were still reverberating both 
throughout the land of the free and the land of the 
slave. Maledictions and denunciations were heard. 
It was the hour of many ominous signs and prophe- 
sies. John Brown had been hung. There were fresh 
reports daily from the Kansas and Missouri outrages. 
Beecher was in the very splendor of his fame. Mrs. 
Stowe had written her first great work. The exploits 
of Guideon Wells and the philanthropy of Theodore 
Parker were told all over the land. Political caldrons 
were boiling at every fireside, and the friction of vast 
opposing ideas had raised the public temperature to 
the point of explosion. Every ear stood ready to 
drink the prevailing sounds, whilst every heart 
stood ready armed with unflinching bias to accept 
without question that which tickled, or to overthrow 
with violence that which opposed. Although from 
the day of its inception the advocates of slavery 
among the Indians by the New Englanders, and 
slavery among the Africans by the Church-of-State men 
in the Carolinas and Virginia, had worn the leaves 
of the Bible thumb-bare where they had pointed to 
Divine authority as an argument for trade in fellow- 
man, they now put on the shining armor of the 
Lord, and pointed to the Bible as the only means out 
of the difficulty. Argument had been driven to the 
last ditch. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 261 

“ You plucked me by the coat ; what do you want?” 
whispered Severgn in answer to a motion of Mr. Rolf. 

‘ ‘ Have you no eyes ?” exclaimed his friend. 

Severgn looked ahead. There before him descend- 
ing- from a shining- coupe he saw the being whom he 
had so much admired at The Grand. He felt his 
heart bound as he thought of the coincidence of their 
meeting. .It was she! Was she not more beautiful 
than any being he had ever seen ? He watched every 
move, the raising of the delicate parasol, the dancing 
of the ribbons of her bonnet under the pretty white 
chin and the sparkle of the bead work, the airy undu- 
lations of the fine lace at her sleeves and about her 
neck, which so uniquely finished her plain but beauti- 
ful dress, which was made of some soft cream colored 
wool. He saw the white neck proudly uplifted, the 
elevation of the eye-brow as she spoke to the lady, 
perhaps her mother who had descended from the 
coupe after her, the sparkling whiteness of her teeth 
as she smiled, the proud step, the queenly bearing of 
the entire body; all passed swiftly before his vision. 
For the space of a second the eyes of the young 
woman returned his glance, then suddenly fell upon 
the ground. As they ascended the stones arid stood 
beneath the arching portal the vision had passed in 
and was lost. 

“Rolf, why do you smile?” asked Severgn as he 
noticed to his unquestionable dislike his dear friend 
struggling beneath a white silk handkerchief which 
he was holding to his face to smother his mirth. 

“Have I not a cause when I, see the triple-plate 


262 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

of stoicism shattered by a single dart ? My apathetic 
friend literally undone by a single glance from a 
woman’s eye?” answered Mr. Rolf, yet struggling 
over what he considered a comical plight for a man 
like Severgn. “ Oh, I shall watch closely hereafter to 
see which way the wind blows, Severgn!” 

Two by two and three by three gathering in knots 
and crowds, slowly progressing down the nave and 
deflecting to right or left as motioned the ushers who 
were assigning the people their seats, the throng steadi- 
ly filled the sanctuary until every available seat was 
taken. Then chairs were brought in, and they in turn 
were readily occupied. Still on came the throng, nor 
did not stop until standing room itself was scarce to be 
had. The windows had been opened, and the spring air 
gently wafting in, tossed many a brilliant plume and 
ribbon. Here and there magnificent fans were seen 
floating in obedience to the graceful moves of many a 
pretty arm ; and all about were seen warm glowing 
cheeks and sparkling eyes. It was a rare occasion 
for the favored orator of the hour. The altar was 
wreathed in flowers. A floral anchor of huge dimen- 
sions entwined with a cross of similar size sat upon 
the rostrum. A sweet fragrance was in the air, the 
sun fell through the mosaic glass of the gothic 
windows and diffused itself softly as if in holiness 
upon the multitude. A low musical murmur from the 
great organ drowned the dissonant shuffle of the 
incoming people with its waves of melody. 

Presently there was a song by that vast concourse, 
in which many a cultured voice was heard here and 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 263 

there throughout the uprisen throng leading the mu- 
sical measures one by one until every spirit present 
felt a divine recompense for his or her presence, and 
an inspiration of the hour. Then followed a prayer, 
in which the blessing of Almighty God was asked 
upon the Nation ; ‘the Providential guidance of the 
Republic through its hour of darkest trial; and an “Oh 
God grant that the speaker of to-day may be given 
divine light upon the threatening disasters of the 
hour ; that his lips may be clothed with eloquent 
prophesy ; that he may speak as the prophets of old, 
guiding the people from the land of darkness and 
trouble to the realm of light and peace!” Also were 
there many touching allusions on the social distress 
through which the Republic was then passing ; and 
every heart felt a sense of the solemn invocation. 

When the last words from the lips of him who 
offered up this supplication had sank to silence, there 
was seen to proceed from the bevy of the choir — who 
were seated in a handsome balcony in front and above 
the rostrum — a lady dressed in light. She was con- 
spicuously beautiful because of her statuesque appear- 
ance as she stood there before the railing from which 
swung flowing antique draperies, and in the midst of 
associates some twelve or more in number, ladies and 
gentlemen who retained their seats with pronounced 
approbation for her. Maurice Severgn had riveted his 
attention upon her. For a moment she stood tenderly 
holding the music soon to be rendered ; when pres- 
ently a low peal of the organ was heard, then another 
and yet another until every pipe it would seem 


2 64 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

had taken up the melody. There was silence through- 
out that huge assembly until breathing itself were 
almost suppressed. Then slowly mingling with the 
notes of the instrument and entwining themselves 
with the solemn pulsations of the music were 
heard to ascend, words quivering in all their parts 
with the intensity of the theme until was universally 
experienced that indescribable thrill which creeps o’er 
the surface of the body to the very roots of the hair, 
seemingly to lift the listener from out his corporeal 
self. By slow and imperceptible intervals the soloist 
herself appeared to have grasped the inspiration of 
the preceding invocation and was now carrying those 
supplications up to heaven. Each note was quivering 
with that superhuman feeling only known to the 
great masters of the human voice. All that indes- 
cribableness of music when it transcends the earthly 
was present in that song. Finally the last words 
melted into silence, the great instrument slowly sank 
to rest, and they who had been entranced seemed to 
come back to earth with a sigh — that peculiar expres- 
sion so noticeable in great gatherings after the 
occurrence of some scene which rivets and enchants 
the soul. 

'“Did I not tell you she could sing! There is 
necromancy in that voice!” exclaimed Mr. Rolf in an 
undertone to Severgn. Severgn said nothing. A 
hundred more were noticed to draw near to each other. 
It meant so many hundred compliments. 

Then appeared the familiar face of the pastor of the 
congregation, who came forward and in a few telling 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 26 $ 

words announced the pleasure it gave him to intro- 
duce “him whose fame is already known to a 
majority if not all present — Rev. Dr. Cunningham, of 
Savannah.” 

“ Cunningham of Savannah!” repeated Severgn in 
his mind. The sound of this name had certainly 
aroused some deep reflections in the thoughtful mind 
of Severgn ; for instantly he cast his eyes toward the 
floor at his feet, and slowly raising his hand to his 
mustache he began to meditate. The picture of Vul- 
can and many other associate ideas then passed swiftly 
before his vision until his soul was carried far away 
into deeper and darker realms. Suddenly he awakened 
with a shudder — not unlike those experiences of Father 
Jerome, who through the vista of years had watched 
the clouds of a threatening fate. But what could be 
the meaning of these opaque mists which were now 
momentarily clouding the beautiful sunlight of his 
soul ? 

However, his mind after a time returned to the 
scene before him, and his eyes again alighted upon 
the central figure of the choir. “I must become 
acquainted with her,” meditated Maurice Severgn. 

The great age of Reverend Cunningham, now 
merging onto seventy-five years, the snowy locks 
which adorned his temples, the massive physique, now 
trembling slightly at the touch of senility, the leonine 
countenance, now furrowed deeply with man}^ years of 
care, evoked a feeling of deep reverence as slowly he 
arose at the altar and began to open the lids of the 
ponderous Bible. His deep sonorous voice — made 


566 The Mystery of Lonise Pollard . 

now almost sepulchural by the relaxed condition of the 
vocal organs of the old man — bore a solemn impressive- 
ness as he with slow measure pronounced his text and 
read the mandate from the Holy Book — “And thou 
shalt choose ye slaves from the people dwelling round 
about ye.” 

He then embarked into a brief discussion of the 
many forms of past human government — their rise and 
triumph, their decay and fall. He entered wisely into 
the affairs of the American Republic and traced it elo- 
quently step by step from its first inception, through 
trials and tribulations ; its struggle with nature and 
with fellow man, with foes at home and abroad. He 
traced what he termed “the divine principle in the 
Constitution,” drawing from this a prophecy of the 
final triumph of the Republic ; for he asserted without 
this divine assurance no government could last. It was 
plain he had read Hobbes, Paley and Blackstone. His 
erudition could not be doubted. He dwelt briefly upon 
the slave power in America, slavery among the New 
Englanders, the enslavement of the Indians by the 
Pilgrim Fathers, paying them a fitting and touching 
eulogy. He spoke of the introduction of the black 
man by the Dutch, and the eagerness with which they 
were purchased by the Virginian and Carolinian, then 
pointed to the patristic leaves to vindicate the act. 
There was a vein of solemnity about all he said which 
made it especially impressive ; and, however sophisti- 
cal would seem the argument in this day, the theolo- 
gical sanction of slavery as propounded by men of elo- 
quence in those times was one of the most serious bul- 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


26 1 


warks of that unquestionably obnoxious element of 
American politics , and went farther to sustain slavery 
than did the constitution itself. It is plain, by the 
chronicles of those times, that the idea of the complete 
elimination of church from state was by no means a 
clearly conceived and well settled principle of political 
ethics. Especially was this so in the South, where 
Chur ch-of- State doctrines have more or less obtained 
since the days of Clarendon, Albemarle and Raleig-h. 

According- to the asserted opinion of Rev. Cunning-- 
ham,“ social rule and human g-overnment must spring- 
from the lips of God as sprang- Palice from the head 
of Jove! It must be endorsed by God, maker of all 
thing’s and projector of all laws.” 

There was much said upon the equalities and 
inequalities of mankind. That phrase of the Consti- 
tution, which recites that “ all men are born free and 
equal,” was taken as the text of this particular part 
of the sermon, and a full explanation g-iven as suited 
the southern idea of that wonderful political document. 
He reviewed the necessary gradations in the economy 
of all human org-anization and labor — appearing- as 
“master and servant, gmardian and ward, commander, 
soldier, and sailor, husband and wife, parent and 
child, teacher and scholar, master and hireling- ; and 
at the bottommost grade, master and slave.” Yea! 
“Did not Ham, who at the beg-inning- stood as a third 
of the human family, receive divine disfavor? Was 
he not cast out for his sin? Did he not irreverently 
laug-h and was he not for this accursed — he and his 
seed throug-hout all future g-enerations? Ham’s curse 


268 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


became his children’s curse, and by command of God 
did they stand under the control of God’s peculiar peo- 
ple. And God alloted among his people the world. 
Shem was placed in Asia, Japhet in Europe and Ham 
consigned to Africa. Among these three fundamen- 
tal nations of the earth was recognized a divine grada- 
tion. Japhet was the ruler of Shem and Ham was 
ordained the unqualified slave of each.” 

It was the opinion of Rev. Cunningham that upon 
this order of human relationship could be traced the 
hand writing of God ; since from this primal example 
of three-fold relationship necessarily descended the 
manifold mutiplication of the order of the inferior and 
the superior, traceable throughout all recorded time 
It was “ a sublime picture projected by the most high 
for the guidance and object lesson of mankind!” He 
continued — “The same God who had sanctioned the 
slaughter of the males and married women of Jabez- 
Gilead, and authorized the forcible carrying away of 
the four hundred virgins unto the camp of Shiloh, as 
wives for the remaining unslaughtered men of Benja- 
min in the Rock of Rimmon, hath sanctioned chattelism 
in man. The same God, the all-wise, truth loving 
king of kings sitting on the throne of heaven, who 
commanded Moses to slay the Midianites, annointed 
with his divine breath the traffic in human chattels.” 
Things were not right or wron g f>er se; but right or 
wrong according to divine sanction. Slavery was right 
because so recognized in the court of heaven — “Oh, ye 
rejectors of the words of God and followers of 
Thomas Paine, beware for the vengeance of the Lord is 
mighty!” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


269 


Such remarks heard in the pulpit of to-day could 
but excite smiles and would be received as evidence of 
insanity ; or on the other hand would be looked upon 
as marks of the most confirmed human depravity. 
And yet — it has not been the spiritual bias which has 
so changed but rather temporal interests which have 
changed. For did temporal interests of to-day demand 
such heroic vindication, there would many a pulpit 
resound with similar sophistry. For such is the com- 
mon depravity of mankind when mundane interests 
are at stake! 

“What saith the Lord in twenty-fifth Leviticus, 
44, 45, 46!” exclaimed the divine, “Both thy bond- 
men and thy bond-maids which thou shalt have, shall 
be of the heathen round about you ; of them shall ye 
buy bondmen and bondmaids.” And again, “ Ye 
shall take them as an inheritance, for your children 
after you to inherit them for a possession, they shall 
be your bondmen forever.” 

Such was the theological bulwark of the . most 
accursed of political dogmas! Such, in the abstract, 
was the doctrine of a divine who represented the theo- 
logical excuse, for the perpetuity of slavery in 
America. 

Here again we take leave of Rev. Doctor Cunning- 
ham ; perhaps for the last time — and so did that con- 
gregation. Never again was that voice heard in a 
Northern city. Many years previous he had abandoned, 
the pulpit and now only assumed the sacred toga on 
rare occasions. This was one of them. After a short 
tour in the North, he journeyed back to the land of 


270 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


sunshine and flowers, convinced in his own heart that 
he had done much to promote the interest of the land 
he loved, and the cause he held sacred. Sad to relate 
— he lived to hear the first guns of the terrible conflict 
and saw the ascendency of the Confedercy of the 
Southern States, but died ere the dread calamity 
of war had settled its dark mantle o’er the land of 
secession. He heard the clash of the first stroke of 
the palmetto and pine, but felt not the shock which 
rived the former from its top to its base. 

For Severgn, there was much in this day’s exper- 
ience upon which to reflect. He thought more deeply 
than ever upon the herculean struggle that at that 
time was going on in men’s minds, and wondered how 
soon the storm which for so long had' been brewing 
would break. The weak sophistry, to which the 
pulpit resorted to assist in bolstering a theory so 
disease-eaten, filled his already cynically inclined mind 
with renewed disgust. But this he again dismissed 
on short notice, as it was but the reiteration of the 
thread-bare argument which was heard so often from 
the pro-slavery theologists. 

As he pursued his homeward course there were 
two things, however, which monopolized his thoughts, 
alternately flashing and dying out, succeeding and 
coming, rising and falling. They were completely 
unrelational in their nature and yet had their coinci- 
dence in time already begun to set the scenery before 
which shortly was to be enacted the drama of his life. 
One was the beauty of the soloist ; the other was the 
light which Rev, Cunningham could possibly shed 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


271 


upon the Mystery of Louise Pollard! The former 
seemed an evanescent vision of exquisite delight, 
forever at hand, and yet disappearing- and returning 
as the glimmer of sunshine in a happy dream. He 
could not release himself and he did not wish to. The 
latter was but a rude prophetic projection into futurity 
by a mind suddenly aroused as if from slumber, filled 
with much gloom and dark presentiment. 

It was thus that Maurice Severgn retired that night 
to his pillow. It was thus with the awakening beams 
of morning after the first sleepless night. Nor did 
those phantoms of light and shadow, at once comming- 
ling and drifting day by day, from that day vanish. 
The one grew brighter, the other darker. 

What possible interest could Madam Severgn and 
her son have in the Mystery of Louise Pollard? 

The curtain of a new world for Maurice Severgn 
had ascended. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


MADAM SEVKRGN’S SECRET, 


IIEN Maurice had returned home, after refresh- 



’ v ing himself with cool water and towel, he 
repaired to his library, where he sat down in his easy 
chair and gave himself up to reflections upon his 
experiences of the day. In a few moments the hand- 
some form of his valet, Belshazzar, appeared. 

“Ah! it is you, Belshazzar!” exclaimed Severgn, 
turning in his chair. 

“ Yes sir,” replied Belshazzar ; “Madam has busi- 


>72 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


ness of importance which she wished to convey as 
Boon as you arrived. Shall I inform her of your 
return?” 

“ Sit down Belshazzar,” answered Severgn, at the 
same moment pointing- to a chair near him. The 
valet did as he was bid. 

Belshazzar was very fond of display, and on Sun- 
days he arrayed himself in his best clothes ; althoug-h 
during the week he was also somewhat of a dandy. 
He was now dressed in a full black suit, ruffled white 
shirt, polished collar and cuffs, exquisite neckwear, 
gold cuff buttons, gold vest chain which completely 
encircled his neck, and a diamond stud. His boots 
were shining like the sun, and the gold plated but- 
tons of his coat had been freshly burnished. A plain 
gold ring ornamented one hand, which by times glit- 
tered as he at intervals arranged his dark glossy hair. 
Belshazzar was certainly a very expensive luxury. 
But then besides being a very handsome ornament his 
faithfulness in the performance of his duties as a 
valet, body servant, etc., could not be impeached. 

4 ‘ Belshazzar, ” began Maurice, 4 4 you recollect what 
I told you concerning the slave Vulcan ?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Very well. I am thinking of sending you on a 
private mission to South Carolina. 

“I am at your service,” replied the handsome 
valet in whose speech scarcely a trace of negro dialect 
was observable. 

‘ ‘ Could you get yourself in readiness in the course 
of a fortnight ?” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


273 


“ In less time. Am I to proceed alone ?” 

“ Why do you inquire ?” 

“You are aware of course that there is much 
danger to one of my color in traveling alone. I 
may be arrested and sold from the block. Passports 
and manumission papers are not always reliable,” 
answered Belshazzar, who knew that in some places 
the writ of habeas corpus was not recognized where 
African blood was the issue ; and likewise he could be 
stolen from his paster as easily as a gold watch, a 
ring, or other personal chattel. 

The gentle clinck of a bell was then heard, and 
Belshazzar, prompt as an automaton, arose at the 
sanction of his master and proceeded to the parlor. 
Presently he returned and signified to Maurice that he 
was wanted. 

When Maurice entered the parlor he saw that 
Madam Severgn had sent for him. 

“Pardon me mother; I was intending to send 
Belshazzar to inform you of my arrival. I have been 
thinking of sending him to South Carolina.” 

‘ ‘ Here is a letter which was brought to me by the 
morning post. Read it,” exclaimed Madam. 

Maurice took the letter and read aloud: 

St. Louis, Mo., -June 10, 1860. 

Mrs. Eugene Severgn — Dear Madam : A gold 
watch which at one time undoubtedly belonged to 
your deceased husband, has been discovered here in a 
pawn shop. On the cap of the watch is to be found 
the following inscription : ‘ Presented to Eugene 

Severgn by his wife, January 1, 1840.’ 

An attempt has been made to erase this name 


274 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


with the blade of a knife ; but with the assistance of 
a glass it is possible to decipher the above inscrip- 
tion. Upon investigation we have learned that the 
watch was sold to the pawn broker for $30 by a 
shrewd Italian gentleman whose name is Cavilazo. 
We have secured the watch and will send it to you for 
inspection. We are hunting Cavilazo. His detection 
will perhaps lead us back to the crime of 1845. Our 
agent will soon arrive in your city with proper creden- 
tials to you. We understand also that Cavilazo is in 
some way connected with a trouble which occurred in 
Cincinnati some four years ago, the^facts of which are 
partially known to us now, and will be of great 
interest to you. Yours Very Respectfully, 

Detective Agency. 

“Maurice, dear!” exclaimed Madam, drawing her 
handkerchief from her dampened eyes, “ this is very 
wonderful news.” 

“The stealth and persistency of this company is 
certainly remarkable,” replied Maurice. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

ROSETTA. 

COUR years had elapsed now since Rosetta had come 
A to live in the home of Mrs. North. Four years 
had come and gone. The flight of time to her seemed 
wonderfully swift, marked as it was by a succession of 
happy days. 

The padre and the fearful old garret — the home in 
which she had lived a few years previous lingered but 
as the remembrance of a painful dream. Often she 
had related to her protectors, whom she addressed from 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


275 


the first as father and mother, the many strange exper- 
iences of her life as a roving player — many a scene of • 
which was filled with the wildest detail and most 
thrilling incident. 

Mrs. North from the first had cultured Rosetta 
closely in the art of house-keeping. During the 
greater part of one summer, whilst Mrs. North was 
visiting in the East, Rosetta had conducted the affairs 
of the house herself ; guiding the domestics with a 
judgment which the Doctor considered truly wonder- 
ful. 

Rosetta had also during this time enjoyed the 
experience which is commonly alloted to girls of her 
age. There had been schools and churches, music 
and dancing, theaters and home entertainments, 
bright young faces and confidential friends. There 
had been picnics in the woods, excursions on the river, 
lovely days in the parks, Christmases, and an innu- 
merable lot of holidays. But Rosetta had now passed 
from childhood to the rank of womanhood. Her 
auburn hair had grown darker, her eyes more lustrous 
and expressive, her form had assumed the height and 
bearing of womanly dignity. She had lovers and 
suitors, and innumerable close friends of her own sex. 
She gave parties and musicales. In vocal music she 
had become famous. Hundreds came to church pur- 
posely to hear Rosetta sing. 

The affection which Rosetta had conceived for 
Maurice Severgn had slept in her heart those four 
years like a profound secret. Whether this spark was 
Still alive or whether it had been smothered, none but 


276 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


Rosetta knew. At intervals during- the last year, Mrs. 
North had tokens that Rosetta was not entirely happy. 
Not but what Rosetta was keenly alive to the rare 
advantag-es of her home ; for this Rosetta showed in 
her faithfulness in all duties entrusted to her. 

“Among- the list of Rosetta’s acquaintances, is 
there anyone on whom she seems to bestow more con- 
sideration than another? ” inquired Mrs. North of her 
husband one evening- when Rosetta was entertaining* a 
company of friends. 

“None, Marg-aret!” answered the Doctor. “ I have 
observed that she has a few specials among- her lady 
acquaintances however.” 

“ One day Rosetta and I when out shopping- chanced 
to visit the Vienna Studio, in which we had been 
informed there were some rare collections of art. 
Whilst sojourning- throug-h these g-alleries, among 
some fifty or sixty other ladies and gentlemen, there 
was one who more than another seemed to draw the 
attention of Rosetta. He was entirely unknown to 
me. I was certain that he returned Rosetta’s gaze 
with more than ordinary interest, and as I recollect 
that he came in directly after us, I then very much 
questioned if he had not purposely done so; for 
although his -deportment whilst in the studio was 
entirely without censure, he certainly possessed other 
motives aside from a desire to admire the paintings!” 

Doctor North smiled. “Margaret your solicitude 
in those little affairs is really amusing though very 
motherly toward Rosetta, I admit. You say Rosetta 
noticed him?” 



Rosetta was seen to arise gasping for breath and struggling- to speak. 
pointing- to a painting upon the wall 
































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The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 277 

“ I am certain she did ; for once I looked into her 
face inquiringly as if to say, ‘ Rosetta, what is the 
meaning- of this ?’ Rosetta slightly blushed ; and 
when I again looked about the individual had disap- 
peared. 

“What were his outward characteristics?” in- 
quired the Doctor. 

“Well, he was a young man about twenty-six years 
of age or older. He was dressed in a neat spring suit 
of grayish cloth ; wore a stiff hat and supported a 
silver mounted cane. He had the unquestioned bear- 
ing of a gentleman of moral pride and intelligence, as 
his comments to another gentleman whom he had 
casually met certainly indicated. His face was 
cleanly shaven, with the exception that he wore a 
light mustache. Robert, I shall learn from Rosetta 
who this gentleman was. I am convinced that she 
knows. If they should chance to meet again I am 
certain from what I there saw that an acquaintance- 
ship commanding our solicitude would be sure to 
follow.” 

Doctor North said nothing, but arose and went to 
another part of the house, smiling with pleasure that 
his wife was looking so closely after the future of 
Rosetta. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

MAURICE SEVERGN. 

T^HE habits of a student’s life had prepared Maurice 
* Severgn’s faculties for a huge psychic conflagra- 
tion. The hour for it to burn had come. It was the 
first time his soul had been touched by the sentiment 
of love. For many years books and the tools and 
dreams of a student had been his only occupation. 
But where now could the mind, once fallen as his, 
hope to find a corresponding dreamland ? 

Some three weeks had now passed since that memo- 
rable Sunday. Severgn was seated in an easy chair 
near the great window in his library looking out upon 
the leaf-laden trees in the yard. In vain had he tried 
to borrow from his books a brief abstraction from the 
mental scenes which now put to flight all other 
objects, and although those obtruding images were 
alternately clouded by dark presentiments, neverthe- 
less they had been the life of his very being. He 
raised a book to his eyes — a classic romance in this 
instance — he read, then re-read — it was no use ; he 
cast it aside. There was but one thing now accepta- 
ble to his mind. It was her face. And yet had that 
vision so lovely, so radiant with every beauty con- 
ceivable to him, been ushered in with a spectre, a 
dark something which haunted his very pillow. The 
revival of the story of the Pollards mysteriously 
wrought within the mind of Maurice Severgn some 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 279 

inexplicable presentiments. He had sought an inter- 
view with Rev. Doctor Cunningham, but the reverend 
had departed and the attempt to learn more had 
failed. 

It could not be expected however that a man like 
Severgn would succumb without a struggle ; without 
most careful debate with himself. But mental strug- 
gle and debate are sometimes dangerous, as they 
bring into clearer relief the phantoms of the mind. 
For two weeks Severgn gave himself up to reflection. 
He even strove to bury himself more deeply in his 
books ; and this he fairly well succeeded in doing. 
But at intervals would he recall the scenes at the 
theater and the church, the full details of which 
remained remarkably vivid with him. Whilst occu- 
pying the proscenium box at the theater the young 
woman had worn a close fitting princess dress of rich 
white brocade satin, which was cut sufficiently low at 
the neck to display a beautiful white throat, around 
which was entwined some half dozen coils of costly 
pearls. Her hands were encased in long, white kid 
gloves, which reached to her elbows. At the back of 
her head her hair was done up in a loose coil, fast- 
ened with a diamond brouch. By times she swayed a 
fan o f delicate ostrich feathers, the pearl handle of 
which was made fast to a slender silver chain which 
swung pendant from her waist. Upon the back of 
her chair, carelessly tossed from her shoulders, hung 
a rich opera cloak with a lining of pale pink silk, the 
effect of which gave a most fitting back-ground to the 
exquisite picture in front. By times she raised a 


280 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

pearl mounted opera glass to her eyes, and between 
the acts when the curtain had fallen marking the 
epochs in the sad but beautiful and heroic love of the 
immortal Othello, this young woman, who had now 
unconsciously attracted the attention of Severgn, 
modestly interested herself upon the sea of faces in 
the vast throng about her. Severgn raised his glass 
in return and guided it in that direction. Almost 
instantly he caught her face, but as quickly retreated. 
She had observed this movement, for instantly her 
eyes dropped toward the floor and an emotion slightly 
displayed itself in her countenance. If Severgn had 
asked himself why this young woman was now more 
interesting to him than any other, he could not have 
answered this question. And yet this was so. 

Aside from the reflections that this carefully 
treasured scene now evoked in the struggling mind of 
Severgn there had two other things occurred which 
had resulted in completing the enchantment. One 
was the renewal of this vision at the church, the 
occurrence of which was a purely casual one, and 
therefore entirely beyond control. The other could 
have been avoided; in fact it was self-invited, and 
therefore was he solely to blame for his present men- 
tal disarrangement, the effect of which ruthlessly 
tore up and sundered his mind from that task of life 
which he had begun to regard as a religion. 

He uneasily arose and paced slowly from one end 
of the library department to the other. Had these 
maps and charts and tiers of books been petrified to 
stone they could not at that moment have possessed 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 28i 

less power to conjure back the melancholy and wan- 
dering- spirit of Maurice Severgn. 

And this bring-s us to an interesting but certainly 
paradoxical feature in the character of this young 
man. 

The soul of Maurice Sever gn was sometimes thickly 
clouded with depressing sadness. By times he imbibed 
of the bitter cup of misanthropy. His mind went on 
long pilgrimages. 

“Throughout multitudinous and infinite nature 
there is but one force!” exclaimed Severgn, “and this 
force is eternal. It laid the foundation of the earth. 
It appears in the machinery of man ; now love, now 
hate ; now building empires and again destroying 
them. It was felt at Tyre, Memphis, Alexandria and 
Carthage; and did not Rome know it under the sword 
of Atilla ? Creation and Destruction — joint heirs of 
Infinity! 

“By the strange caprices of this infinite force 
Cuvier was awed into silence as he looked upon those 
vast cemeteries of earth, the ‘cataclysms’ which 
gird the globe as with successive mantles of mourning 
robes ; and yet had he followed the footsteps of man, 
here too would he have found the sad monuments of 
ruthless Destruction. All is perishable ; all is folly ; 
all must pass away!” 

Severgn turned with sad heart from the ancient 
ruins of the past; “Stonehenge, her cromlechs half 
buried with grasses growing between,” exclaimed he, 
“voluptuous Carthage, her fallen palaces and golden 
towers ; Elephanta, with sheep now nibbling where 


282 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


gold-laced sandals once were worn upon the feet of 
princes; Isis unveiled; Vesta’s extinct altars; Etru- 
ria’s stupendous grave ; tigers in the palace yards of 
Persepolis ; camels browsing- in Babylon near great 
Belshazzar’s throne ; lizzards creeping over the altars 
of the Temple of the Sun ; Paestum silently sleeping 
amidst the roses; Tadmor in the wilderness! Ah, 
how sublime are the footslips of time — these dials of 
human history which mark the epochs from age to 
age, stopping to cover with mold and ruin the fondest 
toys of man whilst rearing continents where once were 
seas! How vast that time-book of nature ; an ocean 
whereon the eyes may look and mark from pole to 
pole the intervening wrecks of man ; centuries of mov- 
ing clouds with recurring gorgeous sunrises and sun- 
sets! The eyes smart and the brain reels at the sight 
— as when endless pageantry moves o’er the plains 
and soft music filled with joy and hope float sweetly 
upon the air ; more sad and pathetic because those 
glinting blades must some day rust, those ensigns 
fade, those burnished armaments lay battered on the 
field ; and all that song and pomp of drum and bugle, 
the acclaim of vain hope and ephemeral life must some 
day vanish ; when those thinned ranks under scorching 
sun and tempest shall melt into the final dirge as 
finally they must, and a blank and cheerless night with 
sparsely scattered stars twinkling o’er the vast and 
silent cemetery of man!” 

With a heart like that of Maurice Severgn’s which 
was attuned to such subtle sympathy for all that 
awakens the sublimer emotions, and with a mental 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 283 

horizon so broad, it was but natural for him to philo- 
sophize upon the vanities of man and yield a moan for 
the utter hopelessness of the ephemeral species to which 
he belonged ; grasped as he saw them in the hand of 
the mighty forces of Creation and Destruction. The 
eolian harp hung in the wind varies its notes as the 
wind rises or falls. Maurice Severgn was able to 
detect the plaintive notes — “The sad sentiment that 
comes laden upon the breath of nature! ” exclaimed he, 
“For what is it, but the wail of elemental nature 
springing from the lips of the inanimate! Mind is 
but another form of eolian harp, a thousand times 
more refined — an instrument whose strings are strands 
of imperceptible yet material unisons, over which 
ceaselessly tremors the musical wave-beats of nature 
in sympathy with the Infinite!” 

Maurice Severgn was distinct in his individuality. 
He was gifted with the attributes of genius. But 
genius is dangerous. If too lofty, it is covered with 
perpetual snows — if too deep, it gropes in shadows. 
It is easy to go about the earth and pick out these 
human altitudes and depressions ; for the great cynics 
and misanthropes who stand forth in history were all 
men of the extreme heights. For cynicism is but the 
ice and misanthropy the snows of revery dropping 
upon the peaks of human mind. In the abysmal 
realms or lands of depression fewer of the rank of 
genius are to be found ; for it is the land of profound 
thought whose sunlight is sometimes darkened by the 
clouds of melancholy. The pessimism of Johnson, 
Swift, Byron and Carlyle, of Leopardi, Schopenhauer 


284 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

and Lamartine may be cited as examples of the gloom 
that occasionally encompasses the spirit of genius. 
Goethe, Beethoven, Chateaubriand and George Sand 
were each afflicted with acute melancholy. Cowper, 
St. Simon and A1 fieri each attempted suicide. 

Although the heart of Severgn knew the cup of 
melancholy his mind was not likely to allow this phase 
of his nature to ripen into danger, for he kept himself 
engrossed in the active field of science and discovery. 
Observing the tendency of his nature he had already 
begun to change it by artificial methods — devotions in 
his laboratory, physical exercise, fresh air, music and 
the drama — so that for a year past he had experienced 
no real fits of melancholy until by force of chance as 
we have seen, his system of life had been suddenly dis- 
turbed by a condition the nature of which was entirely 
new to him and which he utterly failed to analyze. 

“I will yield for the time being,” meditated he. 
“ If there can be as much pleasure in her association 
as my foolish imagination now depicts, then will I be 
most truly happy again. 'If it is but a mirage of the 
mind — why! I will soon learn this and ag'ain I shall 
be content.” 

To acquire the name of this being was no trick. 
This he had done from his friend before leaving the 
portals of the church. The episode in the studio had 
but increased his ardor to learn more. He resolved 
to hasten his acquaintance with her. He would hesi- 
tate no longer upon the fiery rim of enchantment. 

Thus he meditated. “Her father and I are near 
friends. He has been within my library; he has 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 285 

walked through my laboratory and has surveyed with 
pleasure the fossil and antiquary. He has compli- 
mented my act in the court in behalf of Vulcan the 
slave. I have the hospitality of his house over and 
over again. Let me see!” He was perusing the best 
means to accomplish the desired end. “ Why! It was 
simple enough!” He was in need of a certain rare 
work, which he recollected that the Doctor owned. It 
was enough. He would “go borrow this book and — ” 
Very well. He found himself not long after in Dr. 
North’s library in lively conversation concerning the 
book and its merits. It was the second time he had 
been within the Doctor’s home. The first time, he 
came to secure the assistance of the Doctor for his 
mother who was then ill. That had been some four 
years previous. But during those four years the 
two had met upon many occasions and despite the 
disparity of age a close friendship had grown up 
between them. 

The conversation proceeded for sometime when it 
was suddenly interrupted in a very surprising and 
unexpected but agreeable manner. 

There was a noise in the adjoining room like rap- 
idly approaching footsteps, and in the next moment 
Rosetta entered the room. “ Father! ” exclaimed she 
impulsively — then for the first time becoming aware 
of the presence of Maurice Severgn, she hesitated, 
slightly blushing — “I beg both your pardons, father. 
I thought you were entirely alone!” “Well, my 
daughter,” interrupted Doctor North, “you have occa- 
sioned no serious interruption. Proceed, Rosetta — 


286 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

what is it you wish? ” asked he, arising and holding 
forth his strong arms to Rosetta. 

“Never mind, father,” answered Rosetta in a low 
voice, “I wished to learn something concerning the 
blooming time of a certain kind of flower which I 
have planted in the arabesque figures that line the 
front walk.” 

A slight perspiration was standing upon Rosetta’s 
face, for she had been busy working among the 
flower beds which ornamented the front yard with 
their many fanciful patterns. 

“Will you meet my friend?” asked the Doctor in a 
whisper, at the same time smiling gently upon Rosetta’s 
face. Rosetta hesitated ; she was not certain of her 
mind. She took momentary counsel with herself. 
“Perhaps her hair was loosening from its coil — was 
she suitably attired? ” — and many other questions 
flashed swiftly through her mind. Rosetta’s dress was a 
delicate pink mull with here and there a spray of for- 
get-me-nots. The sleeves were made loose, and gath- 
ered at the wrists. She wore a white lace handker- 
chief about her neck. This she had folded across her 
bosom, fastening the two ends with a wide sash also 
of pink mull. Upon her head she wore a hat made of 
a kind of fine white netting, the broad shirred brim of 
which shaded her eyes whilst in the sun and orna- 
mented her head of dark auburn hair. The ties of 
this hat had been loosened and as she entered the 
room they floated easily over her shoulders. “A per- 
fectly proper costume for the flower beds and the 
garden,” meditated Rosetta, “but for an occasion like 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 287 

this — ?” And again, and even more serious — “A 
flower spade in her hand : and she sweating from 
exertion — her shoes slightly stained with marks of 
fresh earth!” She was certain that she looked like a 
mole that had been surreptitiously unearthed from the 
sod. “ Come! ” exclaimed the Doctor. Taking Rosetta 
by the hand, and placing his arm fatherly about her 
waist he lead her forward. “ Mr. Severgn, this is my 
daughter, Rosetta,” said he, introducing Rosetta. 

Severgn arose and acknowledged the compliment. 

Rosetta’s experience had made of her a rapid reader 
of thought as it swiftly writes itself in the human 
face. There was a certain cadence in Severgn’s voice 
preceded by a transient expression of his visage 
which went quickly through Rosetta’s mind as she 
bowed in recognition of his short salutation. 

When Rosetta had entered the room, three partic- 
ular impressions passed in quick succession through 
the mind of Maurice Severgn as Rosetta stood beside 
the form of Doctor North. She was certainly younger, 
though taller than she had appeared to him on the 
two previous occasions when her stature had been com- 
pared to that of Mrs. Dr. North. Rosetta was also 
certainly more beautiful, thought he. In this he was 
mistaken, for never until now had he looked into the 
depths of Rosetta’s eyes, and for a moment he was 
almost bewildered at the extraordinary luxuriousness 
of Rosetta’s dark auburn hair, which at this moment, 
entirely unknown to Rosetta, had loosened from its 
coil and fallen disheveled upon Dr. North’s protecting 


arm. 


288 


The Mysterv oj Louise Pollard. 


Rosetta was quick witted. “ I am pleased to meet 
you,” replied she with a slight quiver in her voice. 
“My delight these June mornings is to dig in the 
ground!” exclaimed she holding up the flower spade. 
“And then the young flowers are so delicate and 
sweet, you know, when they begin to outline the grace- 
ful curves in the mounds.” 

“A most enjoyable labor,” answered Severgn care- 
lessly turning the leaves of the book which he held, 
“I have a large garden of flowers and vegetables in 
which I work every morning till the sun gets so hot 
I can’t work more, then I retire to the house with my 
body wringing with the sweat of honest toil, and after 
a dash of cool water I take myself into my library or 
laboratory to reap the benefits of an exhilarated 
brain.” 

From these light conventionalities the conversa- 
tion drifted on, Doctor North supplying a suggestion 
now and then, until the minds of all three had found 
lodgment upon interesting matter, which lasted a few 
moments, after which Severgn arose with the book 
under his arm, bowed, saying : “Doctor, I shall take 
extra care of your valuable book — ” 

‘Use it so long as you desire,” interrupted the 
Doctor. 

In this manner was completed that slight bit of 
formality which but an hour previous had stood like a 
wall between Maurice Severgn and Rosetta. In a few 
moments more Severgn was slowly receding from the 
yard, delighted with the thoughts of his successful 
venture. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


289 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

severgn’s vows. 

C EVERGN slowly wended his way home. Time 
^ passed and two whole weeks had finally gone. The 
book had lain undisturbed exactly where he had placed 
it. By chance, one evening, his eyes fell upon it. He 
picked it up and began to scan its pages, but with 
a guilty conscience, for as yet he had not read a 
single line. Suddenly and very unexpectedly he dis- 
entombed a little flower from the flying leaves. The 
crushed and now inanimate thing fell gently upon the 
desk at which he was sitting. He picked it up and 
held it tenderly by its slender stem. None but Rosetta 
could possibly have thought of hiding away and pre- 
serving this little creature — this miniature of nature’s 
infinite beauty — this relic of Creation and Destruction, 
meditated Severgn. He sat silently holding the little 
flower but looking into vacancy. “Am I weak — 
have I no will? ” inquired Severgn to himself, replac- 
ing the flower between the leaves where it had made 
an impression in the paper, and at a spot where it had 
wept out its life. 

Again he raised the book to his eyes. The little 
flower seemed to mark a place upon the leaf whereat 
some human eye had found interest ; for the words 
were lightly underscored — “All is but a fleeting show 
— a pageant of vain pomp — even love itself may fade 
and vanish,” 


290 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


“Unwelcome page,” meditated Severgn — “cynic!” 
to. himself he exclaimed, “ I have no further use for 
you! ” and he cast the book upon the table. 

Even the foreboding reverberations which a slight 
reawakening concerning the Pollards had mysteriously 
wrought within him, had now begun to vanish. He 
saw and he knew only Rosetta. Finally he secretly 
confessed to himself that he was in love. Why pour 
over Voltaire, or Bacon, Shakespeare or Dryden? It 
was all Rosetta. And yet by times he halted and cas- 
tigated himself upon this seeming weakness — he who 
had groped so long among the ruins of fallen nations, 
had dreamed with the mystics, thought with the 
philosophers and sages ; he who had distilled his very 
soul in the witch-light of speculative ideality. But in 
vain did he betake himself again to abstruce metaphy- 
sics, hoping to drown that something which had 
crept into his being and like the moth was devouring 
the fibers of what he had considered the ideal life, 
that of the intellectual voluptuary, the acquiring of 
knowledge for the mere pleasure of heaping up within 
ourself mountains of ideas and facts. It seemed now 
but a one-sided existence, a mental misery! There 
was nothing now which was worthy of struggle but 
that it could be attained more quickly and with better 
results, not alone in a student’s cell under the weak 
beams of the midnight lamp, but with the assistance 
of that other part of his nature, which till that hour 
he had never missed. 

The unqualified hospitality of the home of Miss 
North had been extended to him. He knew that he 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


291 


was respected and admired by the Norths— he loved 
their daughter, and he was resolved that she should 
know it. 

In this way a fortnight passed — a mere conven- 
tional demand by the tyranny of propriety, during 
which the nights were restless and the days were 
insufferably long and empty; and then he saw Rosetta 
again. 

It was in the twilight of a beautiful summer even- 
ing. She sang and played for him. Rosetta was 
also a beautiful conversationalist — apt and interesting. 
Severgn saw her face in the dim light of the stars as 
she accompanied him a few steps toward the gate. He 
prayed that he might soon meet her again. She sig- 
nified a consent ; but the tenderness of Severgn’s 
thoughts had wrought his sensibilities to an acute 
state of apprehension, and his heart quaked as he per- 
suaded himself that he had heard the slightest quaver 
of indifference in Rosetta’s voice. Could it be that he 
had obtruded? Had he misjudged the enkindlements 
of soul in her eyes? It thrust him to the heart! It 
was a painful asking, an insufferable questioning! 

Many weeks of summer were gliding by, during 
which occurred several long walks in the park, and num- 
berless private talks on the rustic bench where the 
drone of insects and the chirp of birds in the embow- 
ering branches mingled with their words. In the even- 
ings Severgn listened to those delightful songs with 
which Rosetta long ere their meeting had enchanted 
the public. 

Rosetta was not to be won so easily. Maurice 


292 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


Severgn had bitterly learned this. But he would con- 
quer! He felt that he must! 

One day to his inexpressible surprise he saw his 
friend Rolf strolling- leisurely down the gravel walk 
with Rosetta by his side. They were to all appear- 
ances happy. They were laughing-. At once Severgn 
felt that indescribable pang known to jealous lovers. 
His heart seemed to burn to a very cinder the instant 
his eyes fell upon them. “And what!” said he after a 
time, chiding himself, “shall I turn madman with my 
closest friend? ” And yet Severgn could not help feel- 
ing that Rolf was doing him a wrong. He was now 
upon the rack. Would he hesitate longer? He 
resolved to tell Rosetta of his love, of his misery. And 
yet was it not already plain to her? 

Again he attempted to break the chain which had 
been forged about him! He buried himself by sheer 
force of will in those delightful pages of Jean Jaques 
Rousseau only to arise after an experience of pain 
and mental drudgery to the knowledge of his thraldom. 
It was far more pleasant to follow the stream of pas- 
sion, thwarted and embittered by frequent jealousy, 
and sink at last, if he must, in the very pool of des- 
pair, than to drag out days and nights in self-torture. 

Finally fall came, and the leaves of the trees were 
touched with gold. He resolved to close the struggle. 
He would bravely tell her of his passion. He would 
ask her to become his wife. If she refused ; why then 
he could endure, or take himself to new scenes of life. 

Rosetta and he were taking an afternoon drive into 
the country. Away out over the hills, the blessed hills 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 293 

and woodland. It was about three o’clock in the after- 
noon when through the deep pass between the hills they 
saw the last trace of the city fade gently from sight. 
Gradually the rocks and hills in silence had uplifted 
themselves about them, and wild birds had become 
plentiful. It was a river road — here and there an 
obtruding rock, a crag, then a scope of water silent 
and silvery as a mirror, a bit of woods then a space of 
heath and then a vista of solemn and impressive trees. 
Now and then they heard the lumbering sound of an 
approaching wagon, and again the whirr of a buggy. 
Once they stopped and watered their thirsting horse 
in a great basin beside the road which had been pro- 
vided by the charitable public and which was now 
bubbling over with cool water. Finally they neared 
the foot of a cliff which from the thoroughfare seemed 
to overlook the water’s edge. Severgn tied the horse 
in a cool retreat and then he and Rosetta passed up 
through the woodland, slowly gathering leaves and 
flowers, where great oaks and walnut trees spread their 
sheltering bows above them. 

“ There is a summit up there,” said Severgn, point- 
ing southward, “where the cliff beetles over the 
water’s edge. It is a great airy height shaded with 
heavy trees and carpeted with soft grass. Let us go 
to it! It commands the river for miles either way and 
a view of the Kentucky shore.” 

“ Are there any pathways? ” 

“Pathways! Yes, plenty, and well worn. I know 
every foot of the ground ; besides it’s only a step! ” 

“Is there not a growth o^f lilies at the base of the 
cliff, near the water’s edge, Maurice? ” 


294 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

“ Yes, and a great variety of wild flowers.” 

“Then I will go ; for I can sit upon the cliff till 
you have gathered an armload of those handsome 
things to take home! ” 

They proceeded, climbing with tiresome step the 
steep incline ; Maurice at intervals bending aside the 
obtruding limbs which crossed their path. Here and 
there huge grape vines climbed the trees from the 
base to the very top where they swung pendant from 
the bows. They heard the wood-birds singing and 
saw them flying through the branches. At one place 
they came into an open spot carpeted with soft yield- 
ing turf and a mat of blue grass mottled with sun- 
light which fell from between the thick leaves of the 
great trees which shaded it. Here they sat down for 
a time upon a convenient log to catch breath. 
They had been chatting all the way as the wild scene 
successively disclosed its many beauties — the flowers, 
the scented grasses, the melancholy old gray stumps, 
the great friendly trees, the cool inviting shade, the 
shrill cry of birds, the chattering chip-munks, the 
frightful harmless lizzards darting quickly out of 
sight, great beetles and droning bees met them as 
they passed leisurely along. 

“It’s a wild and enchanting spot, Rosetta!” 
exclaimed Severgn casting his eyes upward among the 
moss-covered limbs and leaves. They had known 
each other by their first names for some time. 

“It is a sweet little paradise,” answered Rosetta. 
“ See, there is the nest of an oriole! ” and she pointed 
upward. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 295 

“And there the rude hut of the ominous crow ; 
see where the black clump of sticks lays in the fork of 
that elm! Hark! Do you hear that? ” 

“Yes, what is it?” answered Rosetta holding- her 
breath in wonderment. 

“It’s the bark of a squirrel.” 

“Is it truly a squirrel? Why, I have heard them 
many a time and did not know what they were!” 
exclaimed she in a whisper. At that, a swarm of tiny 
birds with yellow bodies and dark spots on their wing-s, 
fifty or more in number, alighted in the thick branches 
of a haw-thorn near by. A robin also mysteriously 
alighted upon the earth and began gamboling about, 
rattling the leaves, chirping and casting up his 
inquisitive eye. Then other birds came in quick suc- 
cession, finches, larks, linnets, bee-eaters and black- 
birds until a veritable amphitheater of birds were 
arranged about them. 

“ You are warm! ” exclaimed Rosetta as she observed 
Severgn wiping the perspiration from his brow. 

“ Somewhat,” answered he, dashing the cool breeze 
upon her face and his own with his straw hat. “ Come, 
let us be off ! ” said he arising and lifting Rosetta 
tenderly by her gloved hands, whilst she obstinately 
drew back and made him pull her from her place on 
the log, laughing the while and mocking him with 
her smiling lips and uplifted eyes. Suddenly she 
arose with a loud girlish laugh and started hurriedly 
on in front of him till her dress was caught in a 
network of briers, when she stopped to release herself. 
Severgn hastened up, stooped and clipped the vine 


296 


The Mystery of Lonise Pollard . 


with his knife, but still it clung- to the dress. They 
both engag-ed the brier, struggling and laughing. 
Their hands met each other. Rosetta’s being sheathed 
in kid gloves delicately plucked at the desperate little 
thorny creature, whilst Severgn’s, pricked and stung, 
were slowly unbinding the cloth from the grasp of the 
brier. Their bodies unavoidably clashed ; Severgn 
glanced into Rosetta’s face and saw her glowing eyes 
and laughing lips and teeth. It was a rapturous 
vision. He felt the tlirobbings of his heart sending 
whirling fiery passions in every part of his body. He 
could not help seeing Rosetta’s pretty foot as by times 
it protruded from beneath the dress. 

Finally the vine having been released, they again 
hurried on to the top of the hill. Here they stopped 
under the boughs of an oak which stood like a solitary 
sentinel upon the very verge. There was a soft green 
sward, elevated here and there, showing distinctly 
where the great roots of the tree lay sleeping and 
growing beneath the sod. 

“Oh, what a delightful place! ” exclaimed Rosetta 
as she stood looking first up and then down the river 
so broad, still and shining beneath them. 

Far down there near the water’s edge waved a field 
of lilies upon their watery stems like birds with white 
plumes. To the south arose the Kentucky hills in 
gentle undulations, clothed in places with dense forests 
so wild and lonely. Rosetta could see where the river 
was lost between the abutting elevations to the west- 
ward, where it sank mysteriously into silence. East- 
ward was visible the dim outline of the city, glinting 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

by times in the afternoon sun, its boisterous noise lost 
in the distance. Rosetta was delighted. She sat in 
the shade and watched Maurice as he clambered down 
the rugged bank toward the water’s edge in the direc- 
tion of the water-lilies. She saw him struggling with 
the rocks and the briers as he descended ledge by ledge 
until he was far below. She saw him gather the 
flowers one by one of the many kinds and colors which 
clothed the declivity from the top to the watery base. 
She watched him explore the lilies until it would seem 
from where she sat he had gathered a dozen or more. 
The risk was all for her ; the struggle for her. Again 
she thought of Bianco and his prophesy. 

She saw Severgn tiresomely ascend the hill, fight- 
ing with grass, hillock, rock and vine until his pers- 
piring face was again insight. It was all for her! The 
gleam of his eyes, the ruddy countenance, the slow 
tiresome plod, the sigh of exhaustion as he fell at her 
feet and emptied the floral treasure upon the ground 
by her side. She admired his strong lithe body as it 
reclined upon the sloping bank. She observed the 
vigorous pulsings of his blood as it beat in the now 
distended arteries of his neck ; and then it was that 
she felt the first wild throb of the pulse of glory, of 
power, of feminine conquest. She grasped his straw 
hat ; drew herself nearer until only the flowers lay 
between them in a great tender, forbidding heap, some 
of which were sprinkled over her lap. She fanned 
Severgn’s face as he reclined upon his elbow wiping 
the perspiration from his brow and neck with his 
handkerchief. 


598 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


To Rosetta what joy there was in the knowledge of 
,such feminine power! A look, a gesture, a mere hint 
had set in motion and impelled the strong figure before 
her! And to think that a glance, a gratuitous smile, 
a word from the heart, a mere touch of the hand was 
all he asked in return — that he would dare the ele- 
ments of the river, to know that he would dash into 
those waters to his very lips were it to save her! She 
had never felt such a realization of self — of exquisite 
individuality till now. It was the very ecstacy of her 
woman’s heart. And yet she must not, she dare not 
but speak, but glance, but breath her affection, but 
stroke his temple, or touch with her elbow his strong 
shoulder to let him know by sign or pantomime that she 
was unspeakably grateful, that she in a word, loved 
him! — for with such dignity, such power in ambush it 
is, that woman rules the world. 

They began slowly culling the flowers, he naming 
them according to their species, describing their 
peculiarities, their properties. After a time Rosetta 
had made a wreath and innocently laughing hung it 
about Severgn’s brow. 

Why do flowers spring up and blossom*if not for 
lovers? 

They went on talking of various light and trivial 
things, sorting the flowers and slowly building a huge 
bouquet. A passenger steamer with music and happy 
excursionists on board hove in sight, came opposite 
and went on happily down the stream. Again they 
were alone. They heard the whispering breezes in 
the boughs overhead ; they saw the swallows sweeping 


The Mystery of Louise Poliard. 299 

and whirling- through the sky far out over the waters. 
Rosetta stooped and began fixing a small bunch of 
tender petals to the lapel of Severgn’s coat. He drew 
nearer to her that she should not be at such disadvant- 
age. He felt the sensation of feminine hands press- 
ing his breast. He saw the glow of passion upon her 
cheeks and the tender tokens of her eyes. There was 
a radiation of soul to soul. His heart leaped and 
struggled as the arrows swept through him. Rosetta 
felt her hand closed in Severgn’s. Her senses swam 
and her heart sank and struggled. She felt the quiver 
of his lips as they were pressed against her wrist ; she 
saw the trembling light flash from his eyes as he 
clasped her hand and pressed it tightly till he would 
Tain have crushed it against his bosom. There was a 
gleaming ecstacy in his face, a quiver upon his lips, 
when Rosetta slowly withdrew her hand from him — 
but with a struggle. Presently they arose and walked 
slowly over to a point where the cliff dropped suddenly 
with declivitious side to the water’s edge, where they 
stood scanning the silently moving water, talking 
lowly, but reading each other’s minds more through 
the tokens of the eyes than by vocal speech. Severgn 
instinctively clasped Rosetta with his strong arm as 
they looked down into the giddy abyss. The spot 
where they stood was a ragged rocky parapet com- 
pletely enclosed and sheltered by the trees and copses. 
Presently Rosetta felt herself drawn nearer to Severgn 
until their faces knew each other’s fire. They had 
reached the very summit of love’s enchantment. 

“ Rosetta,” exclaimed Severgn, his lips quivering 


300 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

and his face turned to her — “Well, Maurice!” ans- 
wered Rosetta under her breath. There was a pause 
and a silence until they heard the beatings of each 
other’s hearts. Rosetta slowly withdrawing her hand 
felt Severgn crush it more tightly to his breast. It 
was buried beneath his coat and she distinctly felt 
the throbbing of his heart. She knew the agony 
under which he must now labor. “Well,” said she 
again breaking the long silence, during which more 
had been said than tongue is capable of uttering. 
Rosetta felt the presence of Severgn’s hand as it 
pressed against the back of her head. Again his lips 
quivered and the silence was broken by Severgn’s lowly 
confiding voice. “Rosetta, I love you — you must 
know that I love you!” There was another silence. 
Rosetta cast her eyes upon the water. To have 
wrenched her hand from his was vain. She did not 
try. She felt uncontrollable heavings in her breast. 
She was about to speak but the dryness in her throat 
choaked her utterance. “ Rosetta, be mine! You can 
never have another love you as do I ! Speak, what 
shall I do to prove my loyalty, my supineness before 
you? But mention it, and if it be even to the extent 
of acutest bodily pain, it shall be instantly done!” 
Rosetta made no reply. “Speak quickly, Rosetta, 
this silence tears my heart. Rosetta, speak. If but a 
look, a lisp — my fate, let me hear it!” The struggle 
of Rosetta’s hand had ceased. Severgn felt it relax 
and tremble. He read a sanction upon her lips for 
they slightly quivered. There was a warranty in her 
silence — an unmistakable confidence in her eyes. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 301 

Again she felt herself drawn nearer, and yet nearer 
until Severgn’s burning lips were pressed against her 
temple and she heard the murmur of his love. It was 
a divine moment. The pressure of those lips against 
her pulsing temple, the crushing fold of his arm as it 
pressed her face to his, though but a moment in dura- 
tion, yet was it to the imagination an hour, a year ; 
the crowding of a million worldly ecstacies into a 
momentary heaven. Again she attempted to remove 
her hand ; it was held as in a vice, and crushed tightly 
to his pulsing breast. “Maurice!” murmured she 
admonishingly, “release me — the time — the place. — 

“ The time and place are fitting, Rosetta!” pleaded 
Severgn. “They have made themselves! There is 
naught but yourself and mysterious nature to hear 
me! Let my vow be written among the most holy of 
the holies. You have known me since the first days 
of early June. You have certainly noted my atten- 
tion. I have tried in all ways known to me to tell 
you my thoughts.” 

“And I have read them often, often dear Maurice!” 
meditatively replied Rosetta. 

“Then answer me, Rosetta. You say you believe 
in God and in heaven ; you say you believe in these 
holy things spoken of by the devout ; then it is before 
such a tribunal I unbosom my most secret thoughts. 
Let it be enscrolled above, that I love you best — 
dearest! And though you crush me with negation 
Rosetta, yet shall I love you! ” 

“Maurice! ’’exclaimed Rosetta, struggling in mind 
and body. But still Severgn held her to his bosom; 


302 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


for to release Rosetta now, Severgn thought was to 
loose her. Submit to such a fate? No! “Tell me, 
Rosetta, that you love me, say at least you will try to 
love me! ” 

His face was near hers. She grasped both his temples 
in her hands and drawing him to her, looked him 
in the face and said — “I will answer you Maurice — 
some day — but not now. Come, the sun is sinking in 
the west and the shadows are creeping through the 
woodland. Come, let us be away! ” 

Oh, the exultation of the moment! The passion- 
ate sense of possession! Severgn could scarcely restrain 
himself. 

“ You will then think of me — you will answer me? ” 
asked he. 

“ I will,” answered Rosetta. 

In a short time they had gathered up the flowers 
and took themselves slowly back through the dark 
woodland in the direction of the carriage. 

They proceeded leisurely homeward ; and in the 
space of a half hour later the suburbs of the city was 
seen through the distant embrasure of the hills as the 
sun sent its long slanting beams of golden light 
against the steeples and glinting window panes. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


303 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

AN AWAKENED CONSCIENCE. 

T ATE that evening- Maurice Severgn found himself 
^ sitting- alone in his library room. In his hand he 
held a photograph of Rosetta. It was an artistic 
reproduction of Rosetta as Severgn had first seen her 
in her costume under the enchanting glamour of 
Edwin Forrest’s Othello. Every detail of that evening 
again came back to him defined and increased in the 
intensity of its loveliness, its passion, by the exper- 
ience of the day that had just passed. 

To the critical eyes of Severgn, in vain had the 
artist striven to reproduce the tall, symmetrical form of 
Rosetta, in which every harmony seemed to blend. 
The contour of her face, brow and neck were fairly 
well outlined and shaded, but the exquisite fairness of 
the skin which glowed with life, vivacity, passion ; the 
brow, the eyes, the visage in which were written 
feminine sentiment and delicate thought ; the luxur- 
ious growth of auburn hair which was always so 
admired by Severgn, had certainly defied the skill of 
the artist. 

Rosetta was now perhaps about twenty years of 
age. She had developed into a young woman of more 
than average height and size, and her well rounded 
form produced that statesque symmetry so admired by 
men like Severgn, whose appreciation of physical 
beauty was as critical as his sense was exacting of all 


304 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

that is required in woman’s mind and affections to 
make of them delightful companions for life. 

It was upon these imagined excellencies of Rosetta 
that Severgn was now dreaming as the time glided on 
into the night. In front of him upon his desk sat a 
large bronze lamp which shed its subdued beams about 
the library room through a silken shade. When 
Severgn arose to depart for his own room his eyes 
chanced to alight upon a small article of jewelry which 
lay at the base of the lamp. It was a gold locket 
attached to a thin gold chain. There was a momen- 
tary pause and a look of surprise. It was the locket 
which he had opened to the eyes of Vulcan the slave. 
“The lost has been found! ” exclaimed he seating him- 
self again and picking up the locket and chain. 

This bit of jewelry had been lost for several days 
and though diligent search had been made, nobody 
had been able to find it. Hanging to the slender chain 
the locket dangled in the light, turning first one side 
then another as Severgn’s eyes carefully inspected its 
surface for possible marks of injury. He then opened 
it and holding it in the palm of his hand sat meditat- 
ively feasting his eyes upon the miniature which it 
contained — the lineaments of a young woman equally 
as beautiful as the face of Rosetta. Unconsciously to 
Severgn, the photograph of Rosetta slipped from 
between his fingers and fell upon the rug at his feet, 
whilst in slow, solemn soliloquy he addressed the 
silent shadows about him — seemingly to break the 
bonds that pinioned him. “ One whole summer slip- 
ping idly by, and nothing done! ” murmured he — 


The Mystery o f Louise Pollard. 


305 


“ Weeks, months, years dropping- from the dial of time! 
And thus my love for one has beg-un to smother my 
love for another.” He paused ; and after pressing- the 
miniature to his lips, he laid it gently upon the desk, 
resting- his forehead in the palm of his hand with his 
elbow near the base of the lamp. For a moment his 
eyes fixed themselves sadly upon the upturned face of 
the photograph at his feet, then again wandered off 
into vacancy. “ Cruel, forgetful son that I am!” mur- 
mured he, “I had almost forgotten that there was 
another void- -deep, deep void in my heart! ” 

For some time he sat looking into vacancy. 
Presently, he again picked up the locket and pressed 
the miniature to his lips ; then withdrawing it, held it 
in the palm of his hand before his fastened gaze. 

“ Sweet, mysterious face,” soliloquized he to him- 
self. “Silent, speechless face! Oh, that I could 
fathom thy secret! For one ray of truth — what 
would I give! Shall I ever stand where the truth shall 
fall upon me? Shall I ever know thy mysterious 
sorrow? What demon haunted thy young steps to thy 
untimely grave? Oh, mother, mother, I adore thee! 
I who child-like kissed those lips in life and nestled 
upon thy breast — thou who art now dead, thou whose 
gentle motherly eyes have looked upon me from impene- 
trable space these many years — if so the soul again 
may live — hear me again! I renew my vows to thee. 
Thy son shall hunt out thy enemy. He shall learn 
thy last resting place. Thy grave shall he make 
holy with his tears!” 

Thus strangely mused Severgn looking sadly upon 


306 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


the open locket ; then laid it carefully down upon the 
cloth near the base of the lamp. 

Presently he arose, and going- to a cabinet which 
stood in the corner took therefrom a small box, the lid 
of which was closely tied with a cord. He brought it 
forth and again taking his seat by the desk began 
slowly unbinding the cord which held it. He raised 
the lid and took from the interior of the box some 
papers which were neatly folded ; all of which were 
written upon. The outside was a blank and was used 
only as a wrapper. It showed signs of unmistak- 
able age. He held the written document in his hand 
and began slowly to read the faded words. It ran as 
follows : 

‘ ‘ Oh, my son, my child, my darling babe ! If chance 
shall let you live and it becomes your fate to look upon 
this, your mother’s last request, press it to your heart, 
my child, for she who wrote it shall then be far, far 
away. Oh dear, dear little babe, I hope you may 
never know the sorrow which preyed upon your 
mother’s heart, nor ever know the bitter tears shed by 
her in hours of torture. I leave you, my child, in the 
tender care of those I love. My directions have been 
given them. They love and cherish my memory ; they 
will likewise guide you. Obey them, my child, for 
through their lips shall I speak. 

“ Seek not to inquire into thy mother’s destiny. It 
shall be of no purpose! It shall be sealed even from 
those who know and love me now in life. Oh, pretty 
child, even as I write I see thy innocent laugh, and 
through the blind tears which veil my eyes I seek to 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


307 


read thy destiny ; but it is a sterile, sterile future into 
which I look. Oh, God protect thy footsteps! I shall 
look upon thee ; I shall be always with thee, though 
unseen. 

“ My boy, my child, my darling offspring, my 
care, my life — ” * 

The paper dropped from Severgn’s hand ; he buried 
his face in his arms and fell upon the desk. His eyes 
were wet with mist — manly bitter sadness struggling 
from his eyes at the touch of this sad appeal. “My 
mother! my darling mother! ” groaned he. 

After a time he again pursued the wild disconnected 
thoughts on the faded page. He read on and on until 
he had finished. It was plain that this document had 
now awakened the very depths of his soul. Many 
times had he read that page and poured over its mys- 
terious importation. He had wept ere this for the 
secrets which its dark wailings enfolded. Yea more! 
He had striven to hunt out the truth — to unlock the 
secret; though over and over again had he read the 
command, “seek not to inquire into thy mother’s des- 
tiny.” 

For at least a half hour Severgn walked the floor 
in meditation — his arms folded upon his breast and his 
head bent down. By times he murmured inaudibly to 
himself. Again he picked up the paper and began to 
read slowly line by line, word by word, weighing and 
analyzing each fractional part. He was reading the 
last words of Louise Pollard. The document, the 
locket and chain, and the small box, were the same 
handed to Father Jerome upon that fatal hour in the 


308 


The Mystery of fouise Pollard. 


Old Provost by that most unfortunate soul, Louise. In 
the bottom of this box was also a plain gold ring. It 
was the same which had been exhumed from Washing- 
ton Square and which we will recollect finally fell into 
the hands of Father Jerome. 

Finally 4he midnight hour arrived, and Severgn, 
weary with the bewildering thoughts presented by the 
problem of Louise Pollard, retired to his couch where 
his bright dreams of Rosetta were disturbed by forebod- 
ing shadows. 

Thoughtful, reclusive characters like Maurice 
Severgn are seldom given credit for depth of feeling ; 
but they more than others, are frequently most capable 
of sounding the depths of the human heart. 

Severgn’s love for Rosetta was increasing ; there- 
fore had it become painful for him to realize that what 
he possessed was but visionary and intangible. By no 
means had he conquered — by no means was he certain 
of Rosetta’s heart. 

Severgn had not yet learned the secret of Rosetta’s 
life. Rosetta’s consciousness of this fa'ct gave her 
great distress when she awakened to a full sense 
of Severgn’s devotion. Finally the hour came when 
she must speak. 

It was a twilight evening hour in the first days of 
September. Rosetta and Severgn were slowly stroll- 
ing beneath the elms which lined the gravel walk in 
front of the North home. 

“ Yes, Rosetta,” remarked Severgn, “I am serious 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


309 


this evening-, as you say. Phantoms, dreams, and 
over-shadowing- presentiments awakened my pillow 
throug-h the night, and I have suffered till this moment, 
till I had unbosomed the secret of my life to you ; till 
I had thrown off the false mantel under which the 
world knows me. Yes, I have revealed to you my true 
self.” 

Rosetta was hushed in silent meditation ; for Sev- 
erg-n had just finished a complete disclosure of the 
secret of his life. 

“ Rosetta,” continued Severgn, “ love makes mutual 
but willing confidants of his victims — a just provision 
of all-wise nature. The passion which I have con- 
ceived for you, Rosetta, is a religion. I bring this 
life-secret as tribute to the shrine of my idolatry. I 
ask no recompence, no renewal of plighted love. I 
simply bring that which I owe.” 

“An excellence of your nature, I had never known, 
had you not spoken!” exclaimed Rosetta. “Think 
not that this bit of confidence shall lead to disaffec- 
tion. There is a nobility in the act which no woman’s 
heart if true can well forget.” 

“Sweet Rosetta,” murmured Severgn, kissing her 
hand, “it is not a deep and troubled sea into which I 
have lead our souls. It is a blank and uninteresting 
secret — void, utterly void, save to those whose hearts 
are touched with the mutuality of love.” 

“ Maurice,” murmured Rosetta, raising her proud 
head with confidence, whilst her deep eyes fell upon 
his, “were it deep, boundless, yes storm-ridden and 
dark as the ocean, yet should my heart remain 
unshaken in confidence.” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


310 


There was then a deep silence during which Rosetta 
thought — “ Oh, delicious fate! how sublime it is to be 
beloved!” Then her heart was slightly touched with 
the romantic — “But Maurice!” began she, “this is 
not all. You have memories to unfold — sorrows, joys, 
adventures? ” 

“Yes, many, Rosetta. But first, I would have 
you look at* this,” answered Severgn, handing Rosetta 
the locket and pointing to the miniature within. 

“Your mother? ’’quickly inquired Rosetta, holding 
the picture close to her eyes as they stood for a 
moment in the twilight in which the lineaments of the 
face of Louise were dimly traceable. 

‘ 4 My mother, ” answered Severgn. 4 4 Poor unfortu- 
nate woman! was she not beautiful, Rosetta? ” 

“Very beautiful, Maurice,”, murmured Rosetta, 
“ have you any memories of her?” 

“None, Rosetta,” sadly answered Severgn. 
“Listen, Rosetta! Briefly my story is this. My 
childhood experience began in the city of New York. 
It seems that at the period of my mother’s mysterious 
death — I say mysterious, for here the clouds begin 
which extend backward over the entire sphere of her 
life — I was placed in the charge of some one who 
deserted me, or died and left me. This is not well 
established. My own memory alone is here my guide. 
I remember but the faintest traces now of that exist- 
ence. I recollect an old, old woman with pinched 
face and withered chin, for whom, to the best of my 
judgment, I must have served the function of a paper 
peddler ; for I recollect of standing upon the corners 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 3li 

for hours at a time with a bundle of newspapers under 
my arms, selling- a two penny edition of some paper, 
perhaps the Advertiser, but as reg-ards the name I am 
not certain. The next epoch of my career which is 
indelible in my memory is this: One day I returned 
home — I could not have been much beyond five years 
of a ge — I found the house alone. I wept and cried 
myself to sleep only to awaken and find I was deserted. 
Here begins a career which spreads over the space of 
four or five years filled as you have said with adven- 
ture. I shall not now attempt to recount that life in 
its wild, strang-e and at times really horrible detail. I 
joined a pack of vag-abonds, youths of my ag-e and 
older who acquired a living- by beg-ging-, pilfering-, rag- 
picking-, selling- papers and blacking- boots, what time 
we were out of the hands of the authorities. In the 
summer season we lived under old stoops and slept in 
boxes or upon the earth just as the nig-ht happened to 
overtake us, and in winter we manag-ed to find a 
deserted g-arret, and sometimes charity opened its door 
to us. In this manner time slipped by until the event- 
ful day of my career came. 

“Some petty misdemeanors had been committed, 
the g-uilt of which had been fastened upon me and my 
associates. We were all arrested ; and thus were the 
facts of our horrible poverty and wretched existence 
first broug-ht to the eyes of the proper authority. 
Shortly after this I found myself duly installed as an 
inmate of an orphan’s home. The full details of this 
episode were published in the dailies ; my particular 
case as I afterwards learned, having- aroused much 


312 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


comment, for my situation in life then was certainly 
most peculiar. I had no memory of father or mother. 
My precarious living had been picked up in the mys- 
terious ways known only to the gammon thus thrown 
upon the mercies of chance. Through the wreck of 
misfortune, out from the oblivion which encompassed 
me, there was but one thing which survived. It was 
my name — Maurice Pollard. This had been bandied 
from ear to ear among my associates until it had 
become fixed — the slender tie which in the dark mys- 
tery of my past united me to destiny. For, Rosetta 
do you know, that destiny in life is fixed and immuta- 
ble as the law of the planets! ” 

“It is,” murmured Rosetta with her eyes fastened 
on the vacant shadows. 

“One day a very old man came to see me. He 
brought a small box which to my surprise he said had 
been left for me by my mother. The contents of this 
box I will some day reveal to you. Among other 
things was the chain and locket. This old man himself 
is also a mystery to me. For he came but once and 
left no trace by which he could be identified.” 

Rosetta and Severgn had entered the yard and for 
some time had been seated on one of the rustic benches. 

“Shortly after this the fortune of my life dawned 
upon me. A lady who was visiting at the home, 
observing some peculiar trait in me that pleased her — 
forthwith adopted me as her child. Her name was 
Madam Eugene Severgn. Several years after this 
Madam Severgn took me to Europe, where for the 
space of about ten years we sojourned, living in various 


THe Mystery of Louise Pollard. 313 

cities. However into this part of my career I shall 
not at this time enter as it pertains much to the 
life of that kind woman who has so tenderly fostered 
me.” 

“And is the life of your mother an entire blank to 
you? ” inquired Rosetta. 

“ The facts surrounding- her life could not be less 
known than are they to her son — I, Maurice Pollard, 
now Maurice Severgn. Of late this has given me no 
little pain and torment. I have grown a fondly desire 
to learn all that I can of her career. This desire has 
received a new awakening since I have met you, 
Rosetta ; for love arouses the dormant virtues of men 
and causes them to think of things unknown to the 
dispassionate. I feel that I cannot rest well till I 
have found where she died. There is a void, a deep, 
fathomless void in my nature, Rosetta. I must fill it. 
I must seek out the lonely grave and the history of her 
who rocked me and bore me in her motherly arms. I 
cannot longer live happily upon this border land of 
oblivion. I must know! and I have already instituted 
search. 

“From the earliest of my recollection I have been 
accustomed to look upon my mother’s mystery as an 
enigma which was forever to defy explanation. Indeed 
the solemn fact of her absence so permeated my nature 
from the very first that until maturer years, I did not 
question, I did not appreciate the darkness which set- 
tled about my cradle. Rosetta, I was as a child upreared 
by the side of the sounding sea, whose immensity 
being forever before me, had for years obliterated a 


314 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


dream of some day crossing- it. Always looking- upon 
the enig-ma as combining- all that is dark and immeas- 
urable, transcending- my power to decipher, it was 
late in life before 1 thought of exploration. But one 
day the enthusiasm burst over me, as in the life of 
the sailor-boy living near the main, a tingling of the 
blood, a boundless desire to cross that unexplored 
something before me. And, Rosetta, I have set my 
sail upon that sea, to ride into its billows and its 
storm, if need be! I say billows and storm, Rosetta; 
for already I have more than once felt the dark pre- 
sentiment of my undertaking.” 

It can well be imagined that the peculiar career of 
Rosetta had fitted her mind to grasp the pictures por- 
trayed by Severgn. She herself had known the pang 
of orphanage. She herself had tasted the bitter bread 
of poverty ; she had longings and palpitations and 
desires like his own. Their hearts knew responsive 
unison. 

When Severgn had finished, there was a long 
silence — bitter moments for Rosetta. Her mind was 
struggling with indecision ; the inexorable knowledge 
that Severgn was waiting for reply ; the secret mis- 
givings as to what effect a revelation of her true 
individuality would produce in Severgn’s mind, his 
ideal of her now being sweetened and purified by her 
present environment ; and even more apprehensive, 
painful, yea, distracting!— intermingling with these 
thoughts also arose horrible reflections concerning 
Severgn himself. For in all the interesting reminis- 
cence related by Mrs. North to Rosetta, could it be 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


315 


possible that the story of Louise Pollard would have 
been omitted? Was she not at this moment in posses- 
sion of the secret of Severgn’s lineage? ‘ ‘ God pity this 
noble being, if what I now mistrust be true! — and God 
pity us both! ” ruminated Rosetta, whilst her heart quiv- 
ered and shrank at the admonishing touch of an apalling 
fate, a glimpse of which now seemed to awaken by the 
presence of mysterious ties that linked both her and 
Maurice Severgn to the curse that had alighted upon 
Louise Pollard. 

“You say you do not remember his name?” tremb- 
lingly questioned Rosetta. 

“Whose name, Rosetta?” after a moment inquired 
Severgn. 

“The old man who gave you the box.” 

“No, Rosetta. The Home kept no record of his 
visit. Why do you inquire? ” 

Rosetta did not answer. 

The conversation sank into silence. Both their 
brows were encircled with an atmosphere of dubious 
prophesy — the pulsations of Infinite intuition swept 
through the mind of Rosetta. A perspiration started 
from her brow, and a chilly sensation crept over her 
body. For an instant their thoughtful eyes looked 
into each other. “What’s the matter, Rosetta?” 
inquired Severgn. “If it be true! ” gasped Rosetta, 
“my God! Maurice,” exclaimed she falling upon his 
neck in an agony of despair. “ No, no, it cannot be! ” 
added she, burying her face in her hands as if to hide 
from her view some horrible apparition. 

“Rosetta — ” slowly and sadly remarked Severgn, 


316 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

believing that his account of himself was the cause of 
Rosetta’s misery — “I have done you wrong! I con- 
fess it Rosetta; I confess it. We had best part. I 
have done you wrong!” Severgn with a sigh arose to 
depart. 

“No, no! Maurice. I would not have you leave 
me! ” exclaimed Rosetta almost maddened by conflict- 
ing thoughts as she grasped Severgn’s hand in her 
own. 

“The fault is with me, Rosetta,” lowly remarked 
Severgn. 

“ No, it is not that,” answered Rosetta struggling 
through her painful emotions — “No, not that.” 

“Then you do not love me?” inquired Severgn — 
“Rosetta, am I to drift along in this daily, nightly 
pain of suspense? ” 

“Maurice, in which do women most dissemble, 
their tongues or their eyes, their words or their acts? 
The affections seldom wait upon words and the cold 
forms of speech.” 

The place where they now stood near the rustic 
bench was embowered in vines and overhanging trees. 
Slowly the moon had arisen from behind the horizon 
like a great disk of golden fire filling all space with 
her mellow light and awakening the sleeping flowers 
that at sunset had closed their drowsy tubes. On the 
light wings of the evening air was wafted to them the 
mingling perfume of vines and blossoms. Above their 
heads stretched the vast amethyst dome of the sky. In 
it here and there silently floated small filmy clouds 
between which the eyes alighted upon vast fields of 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 317 

space twinkling with countless stars like burning 
coals. 

How impossible it is to express the first delicate 
speech of love’s subtle spirit! The trivial common- 
place things of life are all quite important in its dia- 
logue. Entire days are wasted away in weaving its 
fabric, so perishable that it frequently fades from the 
mind whilst the sound is yet fresh upon the ear, leav- 
ing only in memory the delicious essence of its unsub- 
stantial dream. Though much of the summer that 
had just passed had been in this manner absorbed, 
Rosetta and Severgn had now entered a realm where 
the dreams of sentiment are vitalized into reality and 
shadow become substance. Wisdom halts upon the 
threshold of futurity and takes counsel with itself. 

“ Rosetta.” continued Severgn, “ before I had met 
you, I had dedicated my life to the mysteries of science 
and the cold ideality of philosophy. In the temple of 
the mind I had discovered a Goddess. That Goddess 
was nature. I loved, I adored, I worshiped her. I was 
most happy. To-day, I again enter that temple — I 
am amazed — I am blinded with doubt, with wretched- 
ness. Fate has stretched forth her ruthless hand. My 
idol lies shattered on the floor ; my religion has 
become a myth ; my faith bends like a reed in the 
breeze ; my vows, which I had considered adamant, 
blaze and perish like wisps of straw! ” 

Rosetta was silent. She was thinking of her past 
— of Camillo, of Cavilazo, of Bianco, and by times 
arose a sinister shadow of Louise Pollard. 

“Rosetta, are you deaf to my appeal — are you 


318 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


blind to the sacrifice I have made for you? An entire 
summer has now been dreamed away. The dust of 
unuse is slowly mantling- my library. I have lost all 
ambition but to follow you.” 

“No, Maurice, I am not blind to this sacrifice,” 
replied Rosetta with voice much disturbed. “I would 
have you exalted — noble, prosperous in all ideals of 
your life ; in a word, I — leave me till to-morrow Mau- 
rice! I will answer you ; I have much to tell you!” 
exclaimed Rosetta struggling- from him. 

‘ ‘ Rosetta — ” slowly spake Severgn, ‘ ‘ thus has it ever 
been since first I foolishly confided to you!” Severgn had 
misunderstood Rosetta. He arose with his hat in his 
hand and was slowly walking away. Rosetta was dis- 
turbed. Her heart throbbed with pain and fear. 
Pain — because she loved Severgn and stood trembling 
on the brink where one word from her lips would 
transform the maidenish essence of her being. Fear 
— for the certainty that Maurice was unconscious of 
the history of her life ; and appalling event to her 
imagination! the story of Louise Pollard was known 
to her. 

The dim form of Severgn was slowly receding 
from her. “Maurice!” exclaimed Rosetta, painfully 
recalling him. Severgn halted and slowly turned 
around. Rosetta stood but a step away — her arms 
extended in appeal to him ; upon her face was written 
fear and grief. It penetrated Severgn’s heart like a 
blade. “ Rosetta! ” passionately exclaimed he, clasp- 
ing her in his arms— “ Maurice,” struggled Rosetta. 
“You would not leave me thus without a cause?” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


319 


Severgn looked down into her face tenderly, but 
with wonder and apprehension ; for in the cadence of 
her voice , in the sudden transition of her broken 
spirit, he read the unmistakable presence of a heart 
rent and torn with secret anguish. 

“Forgive me Maurice! I should have spoken. 
There are secrets in my life’s history which ere this I 
should have divulged to you. But only till this very 
instant — believe me — when I saw your form silently 
withdrawing- from me, my conscience smote me! ” 
“Conscience! Rosetta,” exclaimed Severg-n holding 
her in his arms and looking- into her upturned face 
upon which the moonlig-ht playing- througii the leaves 
fell in a peculiar halo of beauty melting- into a pale 
g-old upon her soft tresses. “Conscience?” inquired 
he in painful wonder. 

“Yes!” answered Rosetta, “painful conscience! 
that in silence I have seen you writhe and struggle. 
Briefly that I have seen your soul enkindle upon a 
deception — that he whom I have loved when the 
solemn fate of my woman’s heart tortured me into 
silence ; that you, Maurice, have so long been denied 
the confidence which I owed you! ” 

At that very instant Rosetta had resolved to forget 
that she had ever heard the story of Louise Pollard. 
She would sacrifice herself upon the altar of love. “ Be 
seated. I will tell you all,” continued she. “ It may 
disturb your devotion. If so ; then let it be.” 

“Rosetta,” answered Severgn, “I now divine the 
cause of your trouble.” Rosetta looked anxiously into 
Severgn’s face, when Severgn lowly continued. “It 


320 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 


was but this day that I learned the secret of your life. 
Rosetta, for the love I bear you allow no disturbing 
thought to give you pain from such a cause!” 

For a moment Rosetta was silent. “Then you 
know who I am? ” questioned she. 

“I do. And to-morrow I shall prove it! Be ready 
to meet me in the morning at nine. I want you to 
become acquainted with Madam Severgn.” 

“I will be ready. I will go with you. But how 
came you to learn this? Did you know Camillo? ” 
“Camillo! no. Nor did I know Cavilazo. But I 
know of your past relationship to them. Rosetta, I 
will not now go into detail. Rest till to-morrow. 
Sincerely I ask you — throw away sorrow! Grief is a 
poisonous mixture, and flowing through our veins 
breaks down the centers of life.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

ROSETTA MEETS MADAM SEVERGN. 

CO hastily now do the interesting events in the 
^ experience of Rosetta and Severgn rush upon each 
other that no time can here be given to the narration 
of the preliminary footsteps in Rosetta’s formal intro- 
duction to Madam Severgn 

It can be well imagined that Rosetta omitted no 
feature of dress that in her modest and artistic mind 
would enhance her loveliness. Besides this that morn- 
ing she found herself buoyant and filled with life and 
happiness. And though specially retiring and modest 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


321 


in her deportment when conversing- with dignified 
ladies like Madam Severgn, Rosetta displayed a viva- 
city of speech which was an index to her openes§ and 
honesty of heart. Besides all this, Madam Severgn’s 
reverence for the judgment of Maurice had already 
prejudiced her mind in favor of Rosetta ; and accord- 
ingly the few conventional formalities which prefaced 
their conversation soon passed when they found them- 
selves communing with interest upon topics which 
brought them into a close sympathy of understanding. 
After some half hour Madam and Rosetta had arisen 
and were proceeding slowly from one apartment to 
another — which was Madam’s custom with rare visi- 
tors, interesting them with her many pieces of art, 
pictures, books, cabinets, relics, etc. Nearly one hour 
was thus consumed when Madam and Rosetta entered 
the library apartment where they ran upon Maurice 
who had been engaged in some business correspon- 
dence. 

Suddenly the door bell rang and in a few moments 
Belshazzar appeared with the card of a visitor. “ Seat 
the gentleman in the parlor,” directed Severgn hand- 
ing the card to Madam for her inspection. “Rosetta, 
I would be pleased to have you meet with us, ’’remarked 
Severgn arising with a knowing glance at Madam. 

Although entirely ignorant of the detail of Rosetta’s 
history Madam had learned through Maurice that 
Rosetta was an adopted daughter of Mrs. North, and 
that when a child Rosetta had been in some way asso- 
ciated with an Italian by the name of Camillo. Though 
Madam had deeply pitied Rosetta for her misfortune 


322 


The Mystery of Lonise Pollard . 


as a child she at first was not entirely pleased that 
Maurice had cast his lot with Rosetta whose early 
training- had been left to the care of an unknown Ital- 
ian. However, had not Rosetta’s personality itself 
now entirely dispersed this slight cloud the unques- 
tioned social standing- of the Norths would have 
done so. 

“This is Mr. Hinds, I believe,” remarked Severg-n 
who for a moment had excused himself from the pres- 
ence of Madam and Rosetta and had entered the 
parlor. 

“ It is, sir,” replied the visitor arising-. His style 
of dress and easy deportment announced the fact that 
he was a man of experience. 

‘ ‘Be seated, sir. You have the watch, have you, and 
your official credentials? ” 

“I have, Mr. Severg-n. Here are the credentials,” 
replied the gentleman as he handed some papers to 
Severgn which had been carefully secured with a wax 
seal. The visitor then leaned his heavy frame in the 
comfortable • chair in which he had been seated and 
casually stroking his mustache he busied himself with 
the interesting features of the room. 

After reading the credentials Severgn tapped a 
small bell to his right which instantly brought Bel- 
shazzar. “Tell Madam and Rosetta that we are 
ready,” directed Severgn to the slave. “ In the course 
of our conversation I want you to very carefully 
observe the expression of the young woman, Mr. 
Hinds,” remarked Severgn. 

Presently Severgn arose and presented Madam 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


323 


Severgn and Rosetta. After a few brief remarks all 
became seated. 

It was evident that business of great moment was 
then contemplated, for Madam momentarily excusing 
herself glanced over the papers which Severgn had 
handed to her whilst Severgn after having carefully 
closed all the doors engaged the minds of Rosetta and 
the visitor with various light talk. 

“The papers are entirely satisfactory are they not, 
Maurice? ” presently inquired Madam. 

“Entirely.” Then directing the conversation, 
Severgn began — “In our opinion, Mr. Hinds, the 
most remarkable feature of the process of detection is 
to be seen in the persistence with which the company 
have pursued this matter throughout the ten or more 
years that have elapsed since first they took the case 
in charge. The last five years have been wrapped in 
such total darkness that we had abandoned all hope — ” 

“No, not abandoned! dear Maurice,” sadly inter- 
rupted Madam — “the hope of a woman’s heart burns 
like the sacred lights of a temple, never dying! ” 

“Ah, mother, I confess it. I was wrong,” replied 
Maurice. 

Rosetta’s curiosity was aroused. Was not this 
very eccentric of Maurice to thus lay bare a family 
secret in her presence? Thus ruminated Rosetta. 

“You see, Mr. Severgn,” began the gentleman, 
“when our company once books a crime the eye of 
vigilance is never again released till the hour of cap- 
ture and conviction.” — Rosetta’s eyes were fastened 
upon the speaker. “ — Every fact or slightest clue is 


324 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

carefully set down as time rolls on. Periodically 
there is a complete revision and compilation of all 
testimony from which every agent in the employ of 
the company is at liberty to forecast his particular 
theory. Thus you see, that throughout the course of 
many years the silent footsteps of justice tracks ‘ the 
suspect ’ steadily from state to state, from country to 
country — perhaps around the entire globe.” 

Madam Severgn nor Maurice made no reply. The 
gentleman then proceeded in strange fashion, at inter- 
vals taking mental note of Rosetta. “In the year of 
1845 the dead body of a man is found upon the beach 
of the lake at New Orleans. He has been strangled, 
and robbed of jewelry and money. His child, an 
infant daughter who had been in his company that 
afternoon, has also disappeared.” — Rosetta quivered. 
— “Certain ‘suspects’ who were known to hold close 
relation with each other suddenly disappeared. Sus- 
picion attaches more conclusively. ‘A,’ who has gone 
to Cuba is captured and returned on extradition. 
Investigation reveals no conviction. ‘A ’ is then 
released. But a careful watch is kept upon his future 
movements. One day, four years later, ‘B,’who is 
certainly identified as one of the original ‘ suspects,’ is 
suddenly discovered in the city of St. Louis. He is 
now a mendicant troubadour. His wanderings are 
followed, his actions observed. Finally we have him 
arrested upon pretext of misdemeanor. He is examined ; 
a record is kept but nothing material has been 
revealed. Again he disappears. Then several years 
roll by yielding nothing. Finally the case has begun 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 325 

to be calendared among- the hopeless. Suddenly there 
has been enacted a trag-edy in an obscure settlement 
of Cincinnati. Upon investigation certain people are 
implicated. Who are they? One is Camillo and the 
other is Cavilazo.” — Madam Severg-n g-lanced at 
Rosetta — “And another is a youth, who although too 
young to have been implicated in the first crime, could 
undoubtedly give some important information concern- 
ing it. But where is he? Gone! vanished, leaving no 
trace of himself; save that after the crime, he became 
sole proprietor of Camillo’s fruit-booth — runs the busi- 
ness for two years ; becomes smitten with an Italian 
lass by the name of Creta Majellica, takes her and is 
gone. Vanishes like smoke! ” 

Severgn looked at Rosetta. She had become pale. 
Her eyes were turned in the direction of the face of 
the speaker. Her spirit writhed and strove to cry out. 
But the revelation had petrified her speech. Madam 
Severgn had not observed Rosetta. Maurice was 
about to speak when the gentleman continued — “Two 
years more roll by. Cavilazo is discovered. He is 
questioned. ‘ Camillo has gone to Italy,’ replies Cavi- 
lazo. Of the girl he declares he knows nothing.” 

Rosetta’s heart had almost ceased to act and she had 
grown paler. In vain did her agonized will struggle 
to release her mind. Momentary paralysis had seized 
her tongue. “And thus,” continued the gentleman, 
“again we are in total darkness — the flame is extin- 
guished, the moth set flying in the free air.” 

The speaker now stopped for reply. “And is this 
all? ” inquired Severgn. 


326 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

“ No,” answered the gentleman carelessly bring- 
ing a gold watch from his pocket, continuing — “ This 
article of jewelry was lately found at a pawn-shop in 
the city of St. Louis.” — Madam Severgn started as 
her eyes fell upon the watch. — “Be composed Madam!” 
remarked the gentleman. “Listen. On the interior 
of this case is found the inscription quoted in our 
letter to you. Investigation reveals the remarkable 
fact that Cavilazo was the individual who disposed of 
this watch. Question — did he obtain it from Camillo? 
We shall see. Very well — Camillo is now in Italy. 
Bianco the youth is somewhere in St. Louis. We will 
locate him in due time. But where now is Cavilazo? 
When we have located him we will also have Bianco. 
Then both shall be arrested upon charges of crime 
committed five years ago ; and Madam, I wiU prophesy 
that the evidence will disclose the fact, that Camillo 
took your child to Italy.” 

Rosetta was seen to arise gasping for breath and 
struggling to speak. In a moment she hysterically 
cried. “No! No! I am the child — Madam’s daugh- 
ter! Do you not recognize me mother? I am Rosetta, 
your child. My God, my father’s likeness! ” screamed 
Rosetta pointing tp a painting upon the wall — “Save 
me Maurice, for I shall go mad! ” 

Severgn sprang forward and supported Rosetta’s 
sinking body. For a moment there was an awful 
silence. Madam Severgn stood gazing upon this scene 
like a statue. 

“My child! my child!” presently exclaimed she, 
wildly throwing her arms about both her children 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 327 

— “ My children! my happy children! ” The facts that 
Severgn had related to Madam concerning* Rosetta, 
when added to the revelation just submitted by Mr. 
Hinds, made it clear beyond any possible doubt in the 
mind of each that Rosetta was the child of Madam 
Severg-n. 

When the shock produced by this sudden disclosure 
had partly passed away Rosetta in tears and quivering 
with the excitement of the moment hastily revealed to 
the astonished ears of all, her marvelous escape from 
Camillo and likewise her escape from the horrible 
slave life into which Camillo had barg-ained to sell her. 
When she had finished her brief account, Mr. Hinds 
remarked — “ It is settled. The capture of these men 
will lead to conviction. They murdered Eugene 
Severg-n for the jewelry and money he was then known 
to have in his possession, then abducted the child in 
hope of securing- heavy ransom for her. But the 
authorities moved too precipitably and the case was 
lost in the hasty flig-ht of these g-uilty men. Cavilazo 
may yet be captured, but Camillo is likely beyond our 
reach — ” 

“Leave them to the misery of their g-uilty con- 
science and the judg-ment of God! ” interrupted Madam 
Severg-n who was weeping. 


328 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

A TEMPEST. 

A S hastily as possible the news was carried to the 
home of Dr. North. But the fate of Maurice 
Severgn denies us the right to tarry in the midst of 
Madam Severgn’s joy and the commotion produced in 
the minds of Doctor and Mistress North. 

Arrangements were immediately in order for Rosetta 
to take up her home with her newly found mother. The 
painful but joyful separation between her and her 
foster parents swiftly approached. 

It was upon the threshold of these thing’s that the 
tempest, which for so many years had been gathering, 
broke above the head of Severg-n. 

However, there could be no happier ending- to the 
remarkable episode just related than that which fate 
itself so far seemed to shape — the marriage of 
Maurice and Rosetta. In due time arrangements were 
therefore being made for the realization of this beauti- 
ful event. But woe for Rosetta and Severgn. It is 
not given to the human mind to quite penetrate the 
mysterious veil of the to-morrow! Serenely happy in 
the sweet contemplation of his present fate Severgn 
had momentarily banished from his mind the forebod- 
ings that of late the Mystery of Louise Pollard had 
awakened. In the afternoon of the fourth day suc- 
ceeding the episode just related Severgn had come on 
some casual mission to the home of Doctor North. 
Severgn knew absolutely nothing concerning the 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 329 

family history of the Norths and was entirely careless 
upon this subject. 

It will now be recalled that this was the fall of 
1860, a very stormy era in the history of America. 
The most exciting presidential campaign in the history 
of the United States was then at the climax of 
intensity. The Democratic party after controlling the 
destiny of the Nation for sixty years, excepting a tem- 
porary overthrow in 1840, had now broken into frag- 
ments and was destined to be routed in the coming 
election. The leaders of the Southern faction of this 
now dismembered party declared that the election of 
Lincoln, the choice of the People’s party, would be a 
just cause for the destruction of the Union. 

Maurice Severgn and Doctor North had been con- 
versing for a half hour or more, and finally the sub- 
ject matter drifted into the political topics of the 
hour — the presidential election, the questions at issue, 
the triangular national fight then on, the result if 
Lincoln were elected, the final and ultimate results of 
the slave question and many other phases of the poli- 
tical disturbance of that time. 

They were now seated in the study. Dr. North 
was leisurely cleansing some surgical instruments and 
Severgn whilst keeping up his side of the conversation 
was perusing a book of surgical sketches, the pride 
of Dr. North’s possessions ; for these sketches were 
the product of the Doctor’s own pencil — having been 
executed whilst in college some thirty years previous. 

As Doctor North cast his eyes upon the sketches 
his mind was suddenly carried back to the early exper- 


330 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

ience of his life. “Talking* of these features of 
slavery and looking* ag*ain upon those old sketches 
Severg*n, reminds me of an experience of my own, 
which occurred about the time those sketches which 
you are now looking* upon were executed,” beg*an 
Dr. North slightly in emotion. ‘ ‘Turn to pag*e twelve — 
you will see a sketch I wish to refer to.” 

In a moment Severgn found the sketch and looked 
up in token of his desire to hear the experience 
related. 

The sketch referred to was that of a human heart. 
It illustrated that org*an divided in halves, each half 
being* pinned back to show the interior — the valves, the 
cavities and ventricles, etc. The great artery and 
part of its branch was also displayed. The entire 
sketch presented remarkable delicacy in outline and 
wonderful minuteness of detail. 

“There!” exclaimed Doctor North, looking upon 
the sketch (the picture was done in appropriate col- 
ors) “ that heart has an interesting history! It once 
beat in the breast of one of those same unhappy crea- 
tures of whom we have been speaking. However, I 
have always doubted the charge in her particular 
case. I have always regarded her as a victimized 
woman ; for she certainly bore no perceptible evi- 
dences upon her body of such a curse ; and yet 
the circumstantial evidence was convincing.” 

Severgn’s eyes arose from the sketch inquiringly to 
the speaker’s face, then dropped dubiously upon the 
floor. For but a few moments previously Doctor North 
in the course of casual conversation had told Severgn 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 331 

that Mrs. North’s maiden name was Jerome. The 
memory of this name now arose momentarily in Sev- 
ergn’s mind causing- silent reflections ; for this name 
also appeared in the sacred papers left by his mother. 

Doctor North continued — “See, here is an old 
scalpel which was used by me in the dissection of that 
heart.” The Doctor handed Severg-n a surgical knife 
which had evidently seen much use. “Take it, Doc- 
tor! ” exclaimed Severg-n laying- it quickly back in the 
morocco case among- its fellow instruments — “The 
sig-ht of these thing's are unpleasant.” 

“Well, that scalpel arouses unpleasant memories 
in my mind also. The dissection of that heart would 
never have occurred had I at that time known its ori- 
gin. But I did not. Being- a natural draftsman, I 
was fond of sketching- the anatomy of the human body, 
as this custom was a great assistance to me in sur- 
g-ery One day a student broug-ht me a heart and — 
not now desiring- to go farther in detail — that colored 
sketch was the result. You will observe that the 
features are brought out with great care and minute- 
ness.” 

The Doctor had not observed the pallor that was 
creeping over Severgn’s face, but went on with his 
narrative at the same time polishing the surgical 
instruments and depositing them again in their case. 
“One morning I was suddenly called to the hospital — 
I was then an attendant physician — if I recollect rightly 
it was in the month of May. The being I had been 
summoned to attend was a woman who was then per- 
haps in her twenty-fifth year. I listened to the story 


332 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

of those who were in attendance — she was then dying-. 
Of this I was quite certain from the color of the eyes 
and the uneven beat of the heart. I was told that she 
had been rescued early that morning from the mouth 
of Peck slip, where she had undoubtedly gone to end 
that misery which we know is the most unutterably 
horrible of all the attending terrors of the American 
slave system. Bright, happy, thoughtless woman — 
she had one day discovered her curse. The negro pig- 
ment in her veins had been suddenly disclosed to her, 
and under the consternation of the shock she had fled. 
More bitter than this — poor thing — she had been pur- 
sued.” 

Dr. North was still ignorant of the effect that his 
story was having upon Severgn. Severgn felt a sink- 
ing, a terror — an unutterable terror! But he said 
nothing. His eyes were fixed upon the floor changing 
from place to place in vacant fear. Unconsciously he 
had rigidly clasped the sides of his chair like one who 
has prepared himself to undergo a painful operation ; 
or perhaps like him who is condemned to the block. 

“ She had been once overtaken,” unconsciously con- 
tinued the Doctor, “but releasing herself, again she 
had fled and being pursued finally took refuge in death. 
Brave, magnanimous woman! She had died to save 
her child. I knew that she was then nursing an 
infant, and feared lest she had drowned it also. I 
questioned her. Strange to say she opened her eyes. 
She seemed to revive. I was persuaded that she 
understood me. “ Your child — is it still alive? ” asked 
I. There was a faint trace of response in her lips and 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


333 


her eyes gently opened. We gathered courage and 
thought she could be saved. I placed my ear close to 
her lips and spoke. She answered. But it was the 
whisper of the departing. Scarcely audible it said : 

‘ I have saved my child.’ Once more the breast heaved 
— the quick, spasmodic heave of death and she was no 
more.” 

The face of the listener was ghastly. He had 
changed position on his chair. “Why, Severgn, you 
are affected!” cried the Doctor approaching Severgn. 
“ Slightly, slightly, Doctor, I admit it— but proceed! 
What became of the body? — to the last — let me hear it 
all! You do not understand — but it compares horribly 
with— well — but no matter. Make haste! What was 
done? ” responded Severgn, with vain attempt to hide 
the wild emotion of his breast, and the maddening pre- 
sentiments of his brain.” 

Much worried at the strange action of Severgn, 
the Doctor nevertheless went on as he was bid ; for he 
had no reason to know the frightful and perhaps fatal 
picture he was now drawing. 

“Well, she was taken to the morgue, where she 
lay for some four days. During this time I had com- 
pleted proper arrangements for her decent burial ; for 
sad to relate, I knew much of her personal career. But 
entirely without my knowledge the body had been pur- 
loined into the Medical College and like the bodies of 
hundreds of the nameless unfortunates found its way 
to the dissecting table.” 

Overwhelmed with the approaching bolt, so fatally 
winged for his breast, Severgn yet clung desperately 


334 The Mystery of Louise Pollard 

to hope — even in the presence of the fiery scintillations 
which followed in the track of the dart so uncon- 
sciously directed upon the citadel of his very life. Her 
name had not yet been heard. In this alone remained 
one possible chance for his escape. 

“ For God’s sake tell me who this wretched woman 
was! ” cried he. There was an unmistakable wildness 
in that cadence. The Doctor faltered. He was cer- 
tain that Severgn had suddenly lost his mind. The 
eyes were gleaming — unreadably, distractedly gleam- 
ing! The ashen face had assumed the expression of 
one in the writhings of the most frightful of mental 
agonies. The frenzied voice had brought Mrs. North 
in excited speed to the room. Severgn had arisen 
from his chair. “On! Doctor — for God sake why do 
you stand torturing me with your silence! ” The 
appeal was pitiful. It was terrible — it was wild and 
rose to a positive shriek. The Doctor was confounded, 
overwhelmed, bewildered. 

“Her name — her name,” labored the Doctor, en- 
tranced by the face of Severgn, ‘ ‘her name — let me think 
— she was taken to — her remains, I mean, were interred 
in Washington Square, the potter’s field of that era — 
her name ’’—the Doctor was now more occupied with the 
aspect of Severgn than with what he was saying — 
“Yes, in potter’s field they buried her — after the 
students had dissected the body — her name — Pollard— 
Louise Pollard.” 

“My God, it is true!” gasped Severgn. “Oh! 
horrible, horrible ! ’’—groaned he, covering his face 
with his hands as he staggered back into his chair. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


335 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

severgn’s return. 

O OSETT A had now come to live with her mother. 
* ^ Days of happiness such as it is seldom the lot of 
mortals were swiftly gliding by. Both families were 
now quietly preparing for the coming marriage. Two 
handy sewing women had been employed by Madam 
Severgn to assist in the completion of the exquisite 
and very extensive apparel of the bride. One large 
room had been given over to these women where they 
closeted themselves and plied their steady tools, stop- 
ping only to receive a suggestion from Madam or to 
consult the opinion of Rosetta, who during the entire 
process of this responsible task displayed great skill 
as a seamstress herself, knowing well the fitness of 
each article, fashion and shade. White silk and 
masses of delicate lace mingling with a wilderness of 
fabrics, patterns and partially completed garments 
were lying here and there about the room. 

The return of Severgn from his visit with Doctor 
North was expected any moment. But how unexpected 
and terrible was certainly to be the news that he 
would bring. Madam Severgn herself had never come 
into possession of this secret phase of the lineage of 
Maurice the features of which in the minds of the peo- 
ple of those particular times were colored and defined 
into the most horrible of possible calamities entirely 
beyond the cure of any human relief. 

Rosetta’s beauty was specially pronounced on this 


336 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


day as she was very happy. Her more than average 
height and her comeliness of body were displayed in 
exceptional harmonies as by times she posed before 
the admiring eyes of the sewing women or stood 
before the great mirror to fit to her body some deli- 
cate garment. She had arranged her hair in a heavy 
coil high upon her head and wore in the side thereof 
a crescent of diamonds, a memento from Mrs. Doctor 
North. On the first finger of her left hand she wore 
a beautiful gem. Sometimes one of the sewing women 
would say — “Miss Rosetta, do you regard this shade 
in good taste? ” Again — “Are you fond of this lace? ” 
— and so the pretty work, the entrancing task pro- 
ceeded, awakening in Rosetta’s mind innocent visions, 
holy hopes and anticipations. 

In the last few days Madam’s heart had emptied 
itself of years of pent up sorrow. Once when she and 
Rosetta had been seated in the parlor Madam affec- 
tionately murmured as she gently caressed Rosetta — 
“In the morning of my life, my dear child, you were 
taken from me ; now kind providence has returned you 
again to shine upon the evening hours of my last days. 
Oh my child, my sweet babe!” — and again Madam 
kissed Rosetta and wept as she continued — “Rosetta, 
from this day forth, the storms which have threatened 
you shall have blown away. Maurice has a large 
kind heart. He is strong of body and of mind and 
you will find him ambitious in life. You are both 
well equipped for the enjoyment of the paradise into 
which you are going. I have taught Maurice virtue 
and goodness of heart. Oh, the joy of this moment, 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


337 


my child!” Mother and daughter were seated upon 
the sofa. Rosetta’s arm was about her mother’s neck, 
and Madam felt for a moment the return of that 
unspeakable bliss of maternal adoration, as Rosetta 
caressed her and hung upon her lap, listening to her 
sweet motherly and sacred confidence. 

The bridal trip by agreement with Madam was not 
to extend over the space of more than thirty days, 
after which they — they! how much that little word 
now meant to her— rthey would return to live like child- 
ren in the same great house with her. There was 
more than room within that massive structure for 
them and her. They could keep secluded for weeks, 
if so they delighted in the secrecy of their love, and 
yet live with her. 

“Mother,” presently remarked Rosetta, “what 
keeps Maurice? I have looked for him twice.” She 
had also inquired of Belshazzar if anything had yet 
been seen of Maurice. “ It is now five o’clock,” added 
Rosetta, “ he was to have been here at half past two! ” 
There was some worry upon Rosetta’s face. 

A quarter after five arrived and Maurice had not 
yet appeared. “ Mother, dear,” complained Rosetta, 
“Maurice lingers unusually late! Is it common for 
him to thus delay? ” 

“Not without good cause, daughter.” 

“ Then there is cause, for he promised faithfully to 
return at half-past two! ” There were tokens of deep 
apprehension upon Rosetta’s brow. Sympathetic, con- 
fiding lover as she was, she could not believe that 
Maurice had thus ruthlessly disappointed her. Pres- 


338 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

ently she inquired, “I wonder if Belshazzar would be 
willing- to g-o after Maurice? ” Rosetta was not used 
to the unquestioned obedience and meek submission of 
slaves. 

“ Willing! child,” answered Madam. “ He has no 
will! He knows but obedience.” Then Madam tap- 
ped a bell and in a few moments Belshazzar appeared, 
bowed gracefully and stood in readiness to her com- 
mand. 

“Rosetta is somewhat troubled about the delay of 
Maurice, Belshazzar,” remarked Madam. 

“Troubled! Miss Rosetta, why have you not 
spoken? ” I will g-o seek him.” Then Belshazzar dis- 
appeared. 

But time passed on very slowly. In fact, for 
Rosetta, it dragged! She grew more uneasy. She 
began to regard the delay of Maurice as inexcusable 
unless caused by some disaster! In this mode of mind 
Rosetta finally took herself to the vine-clad porch 
which opened upon the walk leading through the 
front yard. Here she lingered toying among the few 
flowers that still appeared among the October leaves 
and waited for the appearance of Maurice. 

********* 

There are tempests of the soul and there are tem- 
pests of elemental nature. The former is not less 
terrible than the later. Both have their forerunning 
heralds, their unmistakable tokens, their mutterings, 
their warnings. 

From the day Severgn had met Vulcan he had 
whisperings within him ; he had day dreams— omi- 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


339 


nous! portentious! — such as come to us from whence 
we know not but which shake us with ghastly super- 
stitions! Various had been these presentiments, yet 
for a time had the passion of love submerged them. 

The tempest makes itself known in mysterious but 
unmistakable ways. Sea-birds in hurried flight carry 
upon their wings the deep sea mutterings. There is 
a strange odor in the atmosphere of the pampas which 
the wild horse knows when he flies at the approach of 
the fire. The rumbling of the tornado is heard by the 
mimosa hours in advance, and it shuts its leaves and 
hugs the earth. The migration of birds is prophetic. 

Likewise the human soul] It has its presenti- 
ments. 

Dark forebodings had visited Severgn. Frightful 
whisperings — reports from the unconscious centers of 
the brain Dh that he had heard them in season! 
Vainly did he push back these tokens! Finally the 
bolt had burst above his head, and the withering 
blast of his fate swept like a simoon through his 
body. 

Oh, leprosy of slavery! 

What Severgn now experienced had been the fate 
also of his mother ; only hers had been doubly terrible! 
Louise had heard the. clanking chains, the horrible 
phantom of the block arose before her. She had a 
child to protect— she had been pursued. The future 
of Severgn was yet subject to all these terrors, yet by 
judicious care they might be averted. But were the 
facts known to the world, the title to his very soul, 
according to the fixed decrees of the highest tribunal 


340 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

of the nation, would have become a common merchandise 
for traffic. The veriest human brute in the land could 
have been heard in court to prove his title to Severgn 
and claim him as his chattel. 

Louise Pollard had been withered as by a light- 
ning- blast. Likewise her son! Slowly the foot-steps 
of the horrible had approached. One day the earth 
quivered! — it yawned and Severgn was swallowed up! 

Vain was the wild shriek — the despairing effort 
amidst that chaos! Alone! — all alone upon the deso- 
late heath he stood — his back bent to the inky tem- 
pest, night permeating nature, the hurricane abroad, 
the ribbed and darkling sky sweeping through space! 

Such were the reflections — the horrible sensations 
of Maurice Severgn as he proceeded homeward from 
Doctor North’s. 

As he came up the gravel walk of his own home, 
his heart sank in his breast as he saw Rosetta hurry- 
ing forth to meet him. “ Why have you done this?” 
began Rosetta clinging to Severgn’s arm whilst at the 
same time assuming to be greatly offended. “Did 
you not know that I would worry? — it is unkind! ” 

“Do not chide me Rosetta!” gently admonished 
Severgn, endeavoring to smile ; but it was a cold, 
melancholy grimace. The shock which he had received 
an hour previous had by no means spent itself, and 
now in the presence of Rosetta his blood turned to an 
icy current. The fire of his heart seemed to desert its 
forge. Dr. North had accompanied Severgn as far as 
he dared and then leaving him in the care of Belshaz- 
zar had returned home for fear that his presence would 
cause a shock. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 341 

“Why, Maurice dear, you are ill!” cried Rosetta 
as she saw for the first time the pallor of Severgms 
face. 

“But a slight giddiness, a pain about my temples, 
Rosetta,” replied Severgn, as Rosetta and he were 
ascending the steps. 

It was with painful, doubtful moves that he 
approached that door into which never again thought 
Severgn could he enter as the Maurice Severgn of yes- 
terday. The dark pigment, the floating blotches of 
his blood burned in his breast like fiery cinders. He 
felt them creeping in and out of the pores of his skin. 
They seemed to search the roots of his very hair, then 
back again slinking to the heart ; then slowly and 
painfully they searched the uttermost fiber of the 
tiniest capillary. Cold sweat oozed from his hand, 
which Rosetta touching, Severgn felt that she had 
been poisoned. Would she attempt to kiss him? God 
forbid! He quivered and grew deadly pale at the 
thought. “Oh, leprosy of slavery! Oh, curse unspeak- 
able!” exclaimed the silent horror stricken spirit of 
this noble man. Severgn leaned for a moment to rest 
himself against one of the pillars of the porch; and 
yet he feared that his condition would alarm Rosetta. 

The tall form of Belshazzar approached. The height 
of Severgn surpassed it as he leaned against the pillar. 
Though Severgn’s face was ghastly, he attempted to 
beguile Rosetta by indifference to his calamity. 

“ Maurice dear! ” sighed Rosetta, stroking his chin 
with her hand. “Maurice! dear ’’and then she placed 
her arm about his neck and dragged his face to her own. 


342 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

but shrank back in terror; for the cheek was cold and 
Severgn had even struggled from her. 

Suddenly a blindness seized Severgn and the world 
in front of him seemed spinning round in a circle. 

‘ ‘ Belshazzar ! ” exclaimed Rosetta. Belshazzar sprang 
forward and saved his master from the stones in front. 
Again Severgn recovered and dragged himself by the 
assistance of Belshazzar into the parlor where he fell 
prostrate upon a sofa. 

Oh, the mental torture of that moment! Severgn 
inwardly prayed for death. Much better — far, far 
better was death than to live to report his fatal infamy 
to Madam, or to induce insanity — worse than death — 
in Rosetta! As he had entered the hall his eyes 
caught a glance of the sewing women through the 
curtained entrance which led to that room and the wed- 
ding dress took on the appearance of a shroud. Rosetta 
had fallen upon her knees by the prostrate side of 
Severgn weeping and caressing him. Severgn felt 
the touch of her hand upon his cold brow. He felt her 
arm soft and white encircle his head as he lay there 
praying for death. Things were growing darker for 
him. Outward impressions began slowly to vanish. 
He was happy in the prospect of dissolution. That 
current of blood which never before had congested his 
brain, now spoke aloud within him, as it spun round 
and round in his head. Feited, muddy, polluted tide 
of life! Slowly his soul saw the form of the angel of 
unconsciousness approach and drive that loathsome 
tide backward slinking to the region of the heart. He 
felt the sweet pure face of Rosetta burning with 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 343 

anguish against his temple. A hot rain of tears upon 
.his face — a hissing of blood within his head ; then the 
light footfalls of night, filled with incoherent visions, 
settled like a dark light-obscuring mist about his 
brow ; and last of all, and most horrible, the image of 
a human heart! a wild shriek, then all was calm 
opacity — the blotting out of thought and life itself — 
Nirvana! the sweet eternity of nothing! 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

AFTER THE SHOCK HAD PASSED. 

TTAVE you ever stood in the path of the tornado 
* * after the wind had subsided? Have you viewed 
the earth after the hour of ravishment? Have you 
seen the uprooted oak, the proud elm prone upon its 
side, the grain pounded flat with the earth — limbs, 
leaves and dislocated tree-tops scattered promiscuously 
about? 

Have you looked upon the face of sorrow? Have 
you seen wretchedness? Know you the pallid face of 
despair? If so, you are capable of forming a faint 
impression of the home of Severgn a week after the 
occurence related in the preceding chapter. 

The storm could not stop with Severgn. By the 
very essential condition of things it must light upon 
the inmates of that home, one by one. Oh, the agony, 
the suspense in the mind of Severgn during those days! 
Beat it back as he would, there would come an hour, 
and within a few days, when the facts must be known. 


344 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

The marriage had been already indefinitely postponed. 
Partially recovering from the shock Maurice had 
arisen. Yet that tread of his was more the step of the 
dead than of the quick. Sunday came, then Monday 
approached. Yet did the secret of his trouble remain 
locked in the heart of its victim where it burned on, 
and on, bitterly, night and day. 

Unquenchable fire of approaching despair! Where, 
where was the element that could quench the burning 
flame of self consciousness? Where was there known 
an ablution to cleanse the polluted veins! 

The fateful day approached. He had resolved on 
the night before that the truth must be revealed. 
Belshazzar was sent to bring the Doctor. He carried 
a private note. It revealed Severgn’s intention and 
prayed the assistance of the Doctor He came. It 
was in the afternoon. Into his care the solemn duty 
was then placed to reveal to Madam and Rosetta the 
truth, the burden, the fate of Severgn. 

Often had Dr. North stood by the bedside of death. 
Often had it been his solemn duty to reveal to the 
heart of Mother or sister the solemn announcement of 
the presence of the awful hour. He had learned well 
the divine art of consolation in these trying moments; 
but never had it been his painful duty to smite with 
the hand of fate the tender heart of love. Never had 
he crushed the unsuspecting soul of mother with so 
dark a doom. 

Let us make haste. Let us not tarry in the midst 
of this distracting suspense. Dr. North came and in 
words most suited, painfully but calmly delivered 
the message! 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


345 


The hour, the moment had finally passed. The 
last sound of that never to be forgotten interview was 
over. Oh, inquisition of- slavery! Oh, maddening-, 
incredulous yet invincible fact! At first there was but 
doubt, hesitation and fear in the minds of both the 
listeners. This the Doctor encourag-ed ; then departed 
to his own home. 

Three days after this he was suddenly summoned 
to the bedside of Madam. She was prostrate with 
grief. 

The swollen lids of Rosetta’s eyes, the pallor of her 
cheeks denoted the suffering through which she also 
was passing, the silent pain now rankling within. 
Nature, however, had come to her relief. Rosetta 
could weep. Not so for Madam! Her torture of mind 
spent itself not in tears but crept back into the secrecy 
of the heart and there gnawed the strings of life. 

She called Maurice to her bedside and addressed 
him — “Maurice, my beloved son” — Madam faltered 
for she was very weak- -“My beloved son, next to 
whom but one other in this world of grief there is 
none so sacred to my dying life, I can give to you in 
holy wedlock my poor daughter, only when the last 
vestige of doubt shall have been swept away.” 

“Mother dear, rest in peace,” replied he. “No 
design could be more foreign to my mind. Do not 
allow distressing thoughts to thus undermine your 
life. Reflect! Is it not your duty to live for Rosetta’s 
sake? My plans will soon be completed. In my 
absence she will need your consolation.” 

Finally a complete plan of investigation was 


346 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


matured by Maurice ; and when Madam had sufficiently 
recovered, it was submitted to her. By the middle of 
winter Severgn, pale and haggard, left upon his sad 
mission. He took Belshazzar with him. There were 
a few more tears and again the home of Severgn was 
locked from the world. 

********* 

The painful detail of that protracted sorrow during 
his long absence shall not be set down. We shall not 
pry into Rosetta’s letters, . those wild strains of 
love and despair. We shall not ask for a report from 
that sad explorer who had gone forth to search in the 
teeth of fate the secret of his own frightful doom. 

There was a calm, a mournful calm within those 
silent deserted halls which he had once inhabited. 
Rosetta and Madam withdrew from the world. Time 
passed. Spring came. Where was Severgn? inquired 
the world. There was no reply. 

One day a tall gaunt form was seen to pass in at 
the gate. The news of Severgn’s return spread 
quickly. The slaves one by one hastily and joyfully 
gathered about him in silent homage. 

Maurice had come home for a short time upon 
request of Madam to settle an affair of the Severgn 
estate which had for some time been pending in the 
courts. However, the secrets of his lineage had not 
yet been unearthed ; and after his business mission 
had been accomplished Severgn again prepared for his 
second departure. It was the last days of spring. 
Flowers were blooming in the yard, and occasionally 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 347 

a slave was seen digging- around the roots of plants or 
clipping the grass along the gravel walks. 

Again and perhaps for the last time Severgn paid 
a farewell visit to those apartments of the mansion 
which in the past had been the ministers of so much 
pleasure to him. After carefully arranging the tools, 
instruments and various materials of his laboratory, 
he slowly passed through the museum where lay the 
specimens of mineral, fossils and relics. These dead 
and silent images, lifting up their faces returned his 
farewell gaze in mute and solemn pity. Thence tak- 
ing himself slowly through his library room, secretly 
in his heart Severgn felt that he was bidding a final 
adieu to those many volumes that he knew and loved 
so well. 

After a time he came out on the porch where he 
met Rosetta. The vines that had begun to climb the 
trellis lightly swayed in the summer breeze. 

“Rosetta,” spoke Maurice, breaking the silence. 
“Well, Maurice dear,” lowly answered Rosetta, cling- 
ing to his arm, and looking into his pale face. Sev- 
ergn hesitated. “Never mind, Rosetta; it is of no 
consequence!” answered he. 

Rosetta did not press him for reply. Severgn was 
thinking of the first time he had set his eyes on Rosetta. 
It was beneath the boughs of that pine not ten steps 
distance. She was then a child. A slave of Camillo! 
He dared not refer to those things. They caused 
painful reflections. Rosetta abstained from referring 
to many incidents of the past for the same reason. 
She could not tell him of that sweet episode upon the 


548 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


hill and of the prophecy of Bianco ; how for nearly 
four years she had secretly loved him. For although 
it was painful to hide these things, it was more pain- 
ful to disclose them! 

Severgn was now preparing to depart for the second 
time upon the bitterest yet the most inexorable duty of 
his life. Belshazzar was superintending affairs. Things 
were about completed. They would start the next 
day. Again there came the struggle of farewell, and 
all was over. Severgn was gone! 

Prior to his departure, however, the slaves had all 
been legally manumitted. They were given their 
freedom to depart. But they did not leave. They 
chose to remain as slaves in the home of Madam Sev- 
ergn. As for Belshazzar, he preferred to follow the 
sad footsteps of his dear master whereso e’er sorrow 
should lead him. 

Days, weeks, months dropped dolefully from the 
dial of time, during which the daily mein of Rosetta 
was sad and mournful as that of a widow. In her heart 
she had been widowed. Vainly did the prying world 
struggle for the cause. But they could learn nothing. 

Again it will be recalled that these were stirring 
times. Lincoln had become President. The South 
was in arms! South Carolina had set the example of 
secession, soon to be followed by sister Southern states. 
Few, except those who partook in that terrible strug- 
gle, can appreciate the public excitement of those times. 
Sumpter came. The battle of Bull Run swiftly fol- 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


349 


lowed. And now it was seen that the war was no 
delusion. The South meant to defy the power of the 
government. The virus admitted into the constitu- 
tion at the incipiency of the Republic had poisoned 
the nation. Chattelism in fellowman was about to 
avenge itself. 

Weeks passed slowly by. Oh, the painful suspense 
— the bitterness of those days! During’ this time 
Maurice had written but once. It was brief. The 
reverberations of a crushed heart. 

Finally he ag-ain wrote, but it was a private letter 
to Dr. North. Rosetta was not aware of the reception 
of this communication. It was well that she knew 
nothing of this strange appeal. 

It ran as follows : 

, Va., August 1, 1861. 

Dear Doctor : — Oh, yes! How unkindly I have 
treated you one and all. I admit it. But it has been 
through most righteous motives. It has been through 
compassion for you and the others that I have main- 
tained this long* silence. Yes, weeks have slipped 
by. God knows they have been more than weeks. 
They have been months! I have been silent. Had I 
spoken I could have but reiterated my last words to 
you. 

All, all is night. Hope has fled me! 

Oh foolish, childish wailings! But you will have 
me speak! You would have me relate my madness. 
Well I will. But it is through fear that my silence is 
now working greater pain than would the full course 
of my lamentations were they daily poured in your 


350 The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 

ears. I had hoped to free you of this. I did hope 
to lock it all from the world — to pursue my course 
quietly to the end. But your many letters, your prayers 
and entreaties for immediate answer have shaken 
me. Very well ; I shall take opportunity to relieve 
my mind of the pain of a final resolve which I have 
made and which has oppressed me, but which I shall 
demand followed to the letter. It is this: 

You speak of the constancy of Rosetta’s love. You 
dwell upon this. Oh, God! — torture upon torture! I 
can never hope to look upon her again. Would to 
God, we had never met! Until time and the immuta- 
ble law of thing's have purged from my flesh the curse 
which fate has cast upon me, I will, I must shun 
those things whose purer light would but illumine my 
hideous spots. 

I cannot write her more. She must remember the 
stern decree which nature has set between us. Would 
she forget the solemn request of her dear mother? I 
would not have it so. I know she disbelieves like a 
true and confiding lover — that no fate or argument 
could teach her my curse. Holiness of woman — to 
love the fallen! Constancy of woman’s love! God 
bless her! 

Doctor, teach Rosetta to forget me. Though in 
this I ask you to be gentle and guileful. Do not crush 
nor overwhelm her. Breath into her soul the essence 
of my inconstancy. Use honorable but insidious 
methods. Teach her heart gentle means to forget. 
For now do I solemnly think we never again can meet. 
I would not have her sorrows prolonged. I know the 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard 


351 


bitterness of suspense. Better far by tenderest methods 
to obliterate the ties which bind us than one hour’s 
unnecessary torture. 

The evidence accumulates. I have pursued it into 
its uttermost ramification. Like a sleuth-hound I have 
followed it night and day. I sometimes persuade me, 
that I am temporarily insane — that it is all a delusion 
— that it is a bewilderment of a fever stricken brain. 
But I see the confirmation in all thing’s and I know 
that I am Severgn and that I am cursed. 

But enough of this lamentation. It is the fate of 
Rosetta which now most concerns me. If I am to drag 
out my days with this leprosy hanging to me I could 
think of no greater hell than to multiply my sorrow 
with thoughts of her mourning me. God speed her 
happiness — I can never minister to that. There is 
but one way. She must learn my faults, my weak- 
nesses, my repugnant parts, which the blindness of love 
now conceals from her. Let her eyes be opened. Let 
her remember me not in love but in pity— not as Mau- 
rice Severgn of her heart, but as a poor cuised thing 
for which she may only offer a prayer. 

Doctor, there is a way to train the most obdurate 
vine slowly and imperceptibly out of the bent of its 
natural course. Even let it be so with Rosetta’s affec- 
tion. There is a means by which the life of the loftiest 
tree may be compassed gently Let her love for me 
thus die. 

It is twelve o’clock. There is a deep darkness 
without. I hear the crash of thunder. It is the 
artillery of the clouds. I love the furious, for it 


352 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


drowns the torrent within me. I know that I shall 
love the groan of guns — I shall delight in the excite- 
ment of battle. The war is upon us. Thank God it 
has come! 

But silence. I have said a foolish thing. Forget 
this madness. It was but yesterday — well, no matter. 
Doctor, you have been my friend. You loved me. 
For days I gave assurance of strength, but I am now 
blighted. I have been as a tenderly pruned shrub ; 
for days promising, but in the blooming time putting 
forth thorns, and exuding sap of poison. Doctor, 
^remember me but as a blasted leaf! I go. It is my 
last. For, believe me ; there is nought of life now 
dear to me. Rosetta forever parted from me ; the very 
essence of my being poisoned beyond recovery — There- 
fore, an everlasting farewell. As you are one of the 
dearest of my earthly friends, I have charged you with 
my most sacred trust. It is a bequest ; for when it 
shall have been executed, the heart which uttered it 
shall be dust. 

Forever, 

Maurice Severgn. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE SHOCK OF BATTUE AND THE PRINCE OF PEACE. 

FYOCTOR NORTH kept Severgn’s letter several 
^ weeks during which he read it thoughtfully 
many times. “ I cannot execute this trust! ” meditated 
he. “There is a spirit of injustice in it that thwarts 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 353 

the immutable law of destiny.” Finally the letter 
was submitted to his wife. “No, by no means, do 
this,” answered she. “The social prejudice of these 
times against such unions will vanish. Madam her- 
self will some day relent. Rosetta is strong 
minded ; show her the letter. Although the shock 
will be violent, it will result well, for already Rosetta’s 
mind is engrossed with the noble duties of the sanitary 
missions and the soldiers aids. She seems resigned 
to the universal fate of our country. The war clouds 
that are rolling along the horizon of the to-morrow 
have darkened the sunlight from every home. But the 
war will some day be over, and Rosetta and Severgn 
may meet again.” 

This was enough. Doctor North folded the letter 
and filed it carefully away. 

A few more days and the terrors of war were at 
hand. Then daily the bulletins began to tell their 
fearful story. Battle followed battle. Brothers, fath- 
ers, lovers, friends, relatives — even as the snow before 
the sun, they were melting away. The engines of 
destruction were doing their bloody work. The wrath 
of war was upon the misguided people. 

However, out from the wail of general desolation 
came also the song of mercy. Rosetta was among the 
first to lift her hand and heart in that holy cause 
which even in the flame of fury has helped to mark 
that era with humanity — “ the soldier’s aid and sani- 
tary mission.” 

The last murmur upon the first bloody field had 
scarcely died away, when upon all sides sprang into 


354 The Mystery of Lonise Pollard . 

life the sanitary mission, an army of mercy whose 
object was not that of deatH’and pain, but of life and 
love. They dressed tenderly the lacerated limbs ; 
stopped the flow of blood from the weeping - wound 
and brought drink to famished lips. They were at 
the bedside of fever, they lessened the torture and 
brought peace to the couch of death. Never before in 
the sanguinary disputes of the world was such a vast 
machine of wholesale mercy, tolerance and fraternal 
consideration set on foot. 

France and England had set an example. In the 
Crimea they had done similar duty, but it was sec- 
tional, partisan. Never before in all the dark battle 
clouds of earth had the torch of sympathy and charity 
burned more brightly, steadily, unfalteringly than in 
this war of brothers. In this one mighty heart-beat 
of sympathy is discovered the pulse of advancing 
humanity. The promptness and swiftness with which 
the national sanitary mission sprang forth as 
faded upon the ear the last peal of Fort Sumpter, 
attests the general advance of human pity as a national 
element — the sweetest as it is the rarest sentiment of 
the human breast. 

O’er friend and foe it extended its sheltering wing. 
Scarcely had pain given voice ; scarcely had wounded 
men marked the earth with their blood, when mercy 
stretched forth her hand. It was a universal outburst 
of sympathy No city, hamlet or village can claim 
the initiatory. From New York to the boundless 
West sprang forth as at the response of a single call 
“soldiers’ aids” and “sanitary missions.” It was 
like the uprising of flowers beneath a common sun. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


355 


They were upon every bloody field from the begin- 
ning to the close. Classic heroism — armed but to 
save! Brave women and brave men! Water for the 
famishing lips of death, bandages for the wounded! 
In the midst of the strife, in the camp, in the hos- 
pital. The wilds of Arkansas knew them ; they were 
in Missouri ; at crimson Chickamauga ; Battle Above 
the Clouds and the hell at Shiloh. On every bloody 
field along Potomac’s renowned waters stood those 
emissaries of mercy — many of them doing gratis service 
where life and death were wrapped in the same sul- 
phurous cloud! Brave men and brave women! In 
self-sacrifice it was Samaritan. In heroism it rivaled 
all that history in her annals of bloody war has 
made classic! Unarmed except by that mysterious 
godliness which surrounds the merciful, they stood 
where lead and iron were as hail. Thousands per- 
ished but thousands rushed forward to fill up the gap. 
In the camp, upon the field and in the hospital they 
were the hope of the warrior. 

Money had to be raised, provisions, delicacie^, 
necessities, and many were the ways and means of 
the mission. Early in its career came the sanitary 
fairs, where all things were bought and sold. Prob- 
ably among the most famous of these stood the one 
at Cincinnati. To this came the farmer with his 
barrels of meat, the merchant with his wares, the 
artist with his paintings, the banker with his sub- 
scription of money, the lecturer with his topics, the 
humorist with his fun, the orator with his stirring 
appeals, the mother with her handiwork, the sister 


356 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

and lover with their tokens and jewels ; all cast into 
one mighty treasury for high commissioned deeds of 
mercy. 

These institutions of mercy sent forth regiments of 
nurses and splendidly equipped surgeons. They watched 
over the wounded and sick. They erected hospitals 
for the fever-stricken and dying. For the maimed and 
crippled they built comfortable homes. No religious 
cowel or robe marked them upon the field of battle. 
They were there in the name of humanity. 

In these “soldiers’ aids and sanitary missions” 
the work of women outshone that of men ; quite a.s 
much so in sagacity as in bravery. Up to the 
third year of the war they alone had contributed gifts 
whose aggregate sum exceeded seven millions of dol- 
lars! Never before was the vast resources of the 
North measured. When tapped, it was found com- 
paratively limitless in blood, treasure and love. All 
grasped the opportunity to serve the Nation! Sweet 
respite to the sorrowing! To the charity loving, how 
glorious the field! To Rosetta, how holy the cause! 
Rosetta grasped with eagerness to prove her love, her 
fidelity even in the hour of that awful abandonment 
which might last through the painful seconds of her 
remaining years. It soothed and rested her lacerated 
heart. Whilst listening to the last words of a dying 
soldier, the pain of her bereavement departed. A 
saintliness gradually o’er spread her life. Forever in 
the presence of the pain of others she forgot her own. 
Life had again become happy ; sorrow left but a faint 
image upon her beautiful face. Kver by the bedside 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 357 

of death, she became devout. She communed with 
heaven. 

Yet deep in Rosetta’s soul lingered the flame of 
love, burning- dim and low like the holy fires of a tem- 
ple. Often at nig-ht when she was alone she knelt by 
the tent and prayed. When she looked upon the stars 
in immutable space, a peace, a serenity stole over her. 
Often she dreamed of Maurice; but not in sorrow. Thus 
weeks, months, years sped by in the strife on the bloody 
field and in the hospital. Rosetta had abandoned all 
hope of seeing- Maurice in this life. Calmly she 
obeyed the orders of her superiors and moved from 
camp to camp, from hospital to hospital according- to 
the vicissitudes of war, success or defeat, until the 
long- and bloody struggle grew to a close. Finally 

her wanderings brought her to the Berg of F , the 

last hospital in which she figured. 

This little town was situated on the eastern slope 
of Old Virginia’s historic ground. Before the war the 

Berg of F was a pleasant and peaceful village 

nestling close down among the hills on the Rappahan- 
nock River. Foot hills of the mountains arose like 
redoubts about her. 

It was spring, in the year 1864. The forests 
which grew upon the hills were putting forth their 
first tender signs of foliage. The valley was well 
grassed. But few were the cattle, sheep or horses if any 
which fed upon the beautiful pastures. And few were 
the remaining signs of human life prior to the advent 
of the army of mercy, that walked the silent streets 
of the village. War had been there. Thrice had the 


358 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


Berg - of F been the focal point of advancing - and 

retreating - hosts. Extermination . had been abroad. 
The country was devastated ; the village gutted. At 
the early stages of the war the commerce of the village 
had dwindled to nothing, and now her people them- 
selves had fled. Fences lay flattened with the earth. 
Rank weeds and briers grew in the gardens. Uncovered 
wells gaped in the uninhabited yards. A village of 
several thousands had dwindled to a few dozens of 
wretched people. These crept from out their shell- 
riven homes sorrowfully into the spring air. The 
walks gave forth a hollow sound as they moved slowly 
about. It was wretched! What was once the pride 
of the village was now a heap of bricks and rotting 
sills. Charred roofs, blackened fire-scorched walls 
were the mournful monuments of her past. Grass 
grew from the pavements. Sheaves of grass and 
flowers were again bursting from the fertile earth, but 
at their roots lay fragments of iron shells. 

Doleful was the sight of that little company of the 
army of mercy as they entered that deserted village. 
It was night, a moonlight night, when they entered. 
The tread of their feet as they moved down those 
silent streets resounded ghost-like about them. What 

the Berg of F had become the entire South had 

very nearly approached — a beleaguered, starving, 
wretched people. 

Sherman had made his march to the sea. He was 
marching on doomed Richmond. Grant at the head 
of a mighty host was slowly encompassing that fated 
spot. The end of the American Rebellion was near at 


The Mystery of Louis'e Pollard. 359 

hand. The army of mercy always following 1 close to 
that of death, had taken its quarters within hearing 
of those terrible battles which came so hot and fast 
just preceding the fall of the Southern Confederacy. 
They had erected their tents upon the border of the 
stream, and refitted as best they could the remain- 
ing houses for hospitals — standing in readiness for that 
dreadful tragedy which they knew was most surely at 
hand. They had established telegraphic communica- 
tions with headquarters. Their ambulances were 
in readiness ; their sanitary transports upon the 
stream. At the first sound of cannon a detachment 
were to rush to the scene of death. It came. The 
transports were sent. They returned with their 
groaning freight of wounded and dying. 

It was on the morning of the sixth of May, 1864, 
though the exact date is not vouched. Guards were 
standing in arms. Orderlies were hastening about. 
The village was reposing in unsuspecting quiet. A 
few invalids were being attended at the hospital — a 
day of sunshine, of spring air and birds. Suddenly 
from over those heights which enclosed the village 
was heard a deep dull roll as of distant thunder. 
There was silence — prolonged and painful silence! 
Could those accustomed ears mistake that sound? 
They listened. Another roll, deep and prolonged. 
Then another, and another! Nurses looked to each 
other and whispered, “ It has begun!” Another deep 
moan! The sick turned to each other and whispered, 
‘ ‘It is Grant ! He has broken his winter quarters !” Again 
the cannon rumbled and this time the reverberations 


360 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

shook the window panes. Quickly the vision of march- 
ing- hosts stepped into life before the imagination of 
those confined to couches. Limbless men turned pain- 
fully in their beds and cried, “it is Grant at Chancel- 
lorsville! ” 

Upon the distant heights the pickets sig-naled to 
the headquarters in the valley that a battle was being 
fought a few miles to the west. Like magic the news 
was carried from ear to ear till it reached the main 
hospital. Now followed a wild scene. Those wounded 
soldiers who had known many a battle felt their blood 
excitingly course through their veins. The long sus- 
pence of the winter had broken ; Grant had begun his 
march upon Richmond. It was irresistible. Some 
sang, some laughed, and some shouted! What they 
heard were the cannons of Grant in the Wilderness. 

We shall not review the horrors of those days. Bat- 
tle followed upon battle in such fierce succession that 
although the surgeons and nurses were multiplied 
many times, the hospital could not accommodate the 
wounded and dying. Load after load came in during 

those succeeding scenes until the Berg of F was 

overrun. Finally shelter itself was impossible, and 
the wounded lay in the grassy yards ; some dying, 
many praying for death and freedom from their 
undressed wounds. To add to this wretchedness there 
was neither canvass nor boards to protect their 
wounded bodies from the alternating spring rains and 
heating suns, which now soaked the .grass and earfh 
beneath them and then turned the waters into steamy 
vapors. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 361 

Not long- afterward eight thousand recruits passed 

through the Berg of F . Sanguine in the belief of 

their martial prowess and burning for the long prom- 
ised battle. Their tread was steady and firm. The 
hospital attendants came out to meet them. Lines of 
women dressed in white — it was a thrilling sight. 
Suddenly at one tremendous chorus, as if their souls 
were operated by a single key the marching columns 
awakened the valley with a shout. Then to the tune 
of the military bands they raised the famous war song 
of that period, “John Brown’s body lies moldering in 
the grave.” 

Soon, however, followed the dirge. A battle, and 
a third of them had been swept away like grass 
before the scythe. Thus was it in ’64! 

Among the many tents which dotted the village 
and sloping hill side, there was one which commands 
our special attention. It was a large rectangular 
arrangement erected in what, in some time past, had 
been a small public park. It was provided with no 
flooring whatever but the plain earth, the grass of 
which was in a short time trampled flat and hard, soon 
disappearing entirely. It was a white cool arrange- 
ment staked tightly to the earth and held with guy 
ropes. Two upright poles supported its immense can- 
vas top. Within this tent on both sides were stretched 
the cots of the wounded, amounting to some two 
hundred or more in number. In the center near one 
of the supporting poles stood a large table upon which 
was a variety of drinking glasses, several stone vessels, 
a bucket of fresh water, and some sugar, lemons and 


36 1 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

spoons, besides a surgeon's bag of surgical tools and 
some drugs. 

“Madam, I understand that Spotsylvania arrived 
last night?” inquired a young man who could not 
have been past twenty-five, though he wore the uni- 
form of an assistant surgeon. The woman whom he 
saluted was the head nurse of that division of the hos- 
pital. 

“Yes sir, in the drenching rain,” answered she. 
“Poor fellows. Hasten Doctor; there are many here 
whose wounds have not been dressed since they were 
picked up on the field.” 

“Very well, make haste,” answered the surgeon. 
“Get your assistants to bring bandages and water. 
Begin stripping and cleansing! ” 

Many whose wounds had not yet been dressed lay 
near by. The clotted clothing sticking tightly to the 
lacerated parts had to be removed with the greatest 
care ; for the pain was excruciating. After all was 
in readiness one by one the wounds were dressed until 
all had been cared for. 

“ Madam, how is the Colonel this morning after the 
storm?” inquired the surgeon. 

“Improving, I think,” answered the nurse. 

“ Where is his couch? ” 

“It is No. 12.” 

The surgeon and nurse walked over to the couch 
designated, the couches being cases of ducking filled 
with straw. 

“He sleeps,” whispered the surgeon. 

“Does he? Oh that is good!” lowly exclaimed the 
nurse. “Last night he tossed in pain.” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard . 363 

Throughout the tent now could be seen several 
nurses here and there bending over couches ministering 
drugs, teas or sweetmeats, assisting the invalids in 
their couches or dropping a tender word ; doing little 
biddings, writing hasty letters for those whose families 
and children, or lovers were far away. Pinned to the 
canvas walls of the tent appeared pictures which had 
come from old magazines, or play-bills — anything to 
attract the eye of the patient and turn his attention 
from his pain. 

Presently the soldier in bunk 12 addressed the sur- 
geon — “ I have had a full hour’s rest, Doctor, thanks.” 

“What! you are awake, Colonel?” 

‘Yes sir,” answered the wounded soldier. 

“ How is your shoulder, Colonel? ” 

“Not much pain this morning,” answered he in 
poorly assumed indifference. 

“Colonel,” inquired the surgeon, “ how came you 
at Spotsylvania? I thought you were with Sher- 
man! ” 

The soldier opened his eyes in surprise, for he rec- 
ognized the surgeon. “Why, this is my old friend of 
Shiloh! ” exclaimed he through a ghastly smile. 

“It is, Colonel,” answered the surgeon, gently 
grasping the extended hand of the sick man. 

“Strange meeting again of ours! ” continued the 
soldier. “Why, surgeon, I was captured and sent to 
Andersonville where I was parolled and joined Grant 
at Chancellorsville.” 

“ The devil you say! ” exclaimed the surgeon stoop- 
ing to examine the wound, but immediately arising, 


364 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


having noticed a huge spot of blood upon the sheets 
near the pillow. “ Bring bandages in haste for God’s 
sake,” excitedly commanded the surgeon in a whisper. 

“ He is bleeding to death! ” 

The soldier had broken his wound afresh, the band- 
ages having accidentally been displaced. Fresh band- 
ages having been brought, again the wound was ' 
dressed and the blood stopped. “Colonel, to-morrow 
I shall have you removed to the heights where there is 
better air,” remarked the surgeon. 

“Never mind, surgeon, I fought and fell with 
these fellows, I can partake of the same hospital with 
them.” 

“ It is a debt, Colonel — I owe a debt to you for my 
life.” 

“Let it pass!” answered the soldier, turning 
uneasily on his couch. 

“No! by heaven, you will find I command in the 
hospital and you obey!” answered the surgeon who 
then handed the head nurse a gold piece and gave her 
proper instructions for the purchase of necessaries in 
which it appeared that the soldier was to be removed 
on the next day to the heights and given a tent by 
himself. A special nurse was to be detailed for his couch 
and all necessaries brought when required. 

At this juncture there appeared at the tent door a 
female dressed in the uniform of a nurse of the highest 
rank, a spotless white. After a few moment’s conver- 
sation with the surgeon she passed on up the corridor 
between the two long rows of couches. At one place 
she stopped near the couch of a sufferer, spoke gently 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


365 


to him and placed her hand upon his brow, after which 
she arose and went to the table, where she filled a 
glass with lemon ice and returned to him. He arose 
upon his feeble elbow and drank. A few words more 
with the head nurse of that division and she departed 
at the other end of the tent. 

“Surgeon,” asked the soldier— there was a noti- 
cible anxiety upon the face of the speaker — “ Can you 
give me the name of the nurse who has just passed 
through the tent? ” 

“No,” answered the surgeon, “ but if you desire I 
will ascertain it for you.” 

“Very well, surgeon, I have a small curiosity to 
know who she is.” 

After a time an orderly came in and saluted the 
surg*eon. “ Have Colonel Randolph taken upon the 
height to-morrow. Provide him special service com- 
plete,” directed the surgeon. 

“Surgeon,” interrupted the soldier again in a 
husky whisper, “I can see no need for this undue 
kindness.” 

“ Colonel, I prefer that you would lay quiet. I 
shall make such disposition of you as I deem most 
beneficial for you. ” 

The wounded soldier who was awarded such kindly 
attention was a young Colonel whom the surgeon had 
met at Shiloh under peculiar circumstances. 

At the closing hours of that fearful contest the 
Confederates had driven the Nationals slowly back. 
Although the latter disputed every inch of the ground 
desperately, being overwhelmed by superior numbers 


366 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

they were steadily giving way. They had been so 
pressed that finally they stood upon the verge of the 
Tennessee River. Before the Confederates could 
accomplish their object, however, and drive their enemy 
into the flood they were compelled to cross a small 
stream or rather a gulch in which there now lay mud 
and water. It was upon the slippery banks of this 
depression that the fiercest struggle of the entire field 
took place. It was a horrible encounter of the most 
desperate character. A few cannon and mortars which 
during the day had been parked by the Nationals on 
the opposite shore were suddenly brought into use 
with telling effect. Soon the gulch was filled with 
fighting men, wounded horses, guns and sabers. A 
few Confederate cannons which were being hauled 
through had stuck in the mud and could not be pulled 
up the steep banks. The noise was indescribable. 
Screams, curses and the shrieks and groans of dying 
men arose from the cloudy pit in diabolical cadence* 
The battle cloud arose from the gulch like smoke 
from a burning crater. From the opposite banks 
looking down it was an imposingly horrible encounter. 
The colors flaunted mysteriously ominous in that “ pit 
of hell.” Suddenly to add to the already diabolical 
affray the Federal gun boats opened fire from the 
river. They were enfilading the entire gulch! The 
scene now outdoes description. Foeman and comrade 
were alike swept away by bursting shells and flying 
cannon balls. The smoke had obscured them until 
they were unknown to each other. They could not 
distinguish foeman from comrade. There was an 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


367 


instant retreat by both sides and the embankments 
ran red with their blood. 

It was out from this horrible scene that the young 
Colonel, then a captain, carried upon his shoulders the 
bleeding body of the Surgeon ; and it was for this that 
the Surgeon was now repaying him. The morrow 
dawned. The tent had been erected upon the hill 
with its door presented to the village below and a soft 
downy cot arranged for its inmate. At the hour of 
ten an ambulance called and the soldier was trans- 
ported slowly away from that scene of suffering and 
dying comrades. After a time the ascent was made 
and the soldier layed upon the soft couch. His uni- 
form, his sword, and his pistol were gracefully hung 
near by in one corner. It was a beautiful locality. In 
convalescing hours, if providence so willed, he could 
amuse himself and drive away monotony by the varied 
scenes in front. Far away could be traced the Rappa- 
hannock winding slowly between the opposing heights 
like a silvery ribbon. On either side the jutting hills, 
which in places were clothed with forests, stood forth 
like bastions and military redoubts. In the mornings 
the sun arose in splendor from behind the far away 
broken horizon. Far down there in the valley lay the 
village with its broken walls and twinkling tents. 
However, the . Colonel was not the only wounded 
soldier upon the heights. Many others through 
the tender mercy of friends and relatives or through 
other sources had been removed to this favored 
locality. 

“Doctor,” inquired the nurse whom we have pre- 


368 The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 

viously met, “how fares your patient upon the 
height? ” 

“Not so well. Delirious last night. I expected a 
change by this time. But there is much to fear — per- 
haps blood poisoning.” 

“Where is the wound located? ” 

“In the right shoulder.” 

“The ball has been extracted has it not?” 

“Yes, this was done on the field,” answered the Sur- 
geon. “ I have been unable to secure a proper nurse. 
Could you use your power to send me an experienced 
attendant? He spent last night alone. This must 
not occur again. He is very low. Delirious at times! ” 

“ I shall endeavor to send somebody by midnight. 
But you know how we are all occupied, night and 
day!” This colloquy took place three days after the 
removal. The soldier during that time had not recu- 
perated any. He was sinking daily, not so much from 
the wound directly, but from some inner trouble which 
his friend in vain had tried to fathom. 

On the fourth evening the young Surgeon came at 
sunset to stay with his friend till relieved by a regular 
nurse who was to arrive in the night. Night came 
down followed by a soft twilight suffusing over hill 
and valley. Slowly the outline of distant objects melted 
into indistinct shadow and finally were lost to sight. 
Below in the village, lights twinkled at windows and 
by times lanterns glinted in the streets. Above was a 
wilderness of stars. It was a soft summer night. A 
cool sea breeze stole gently o’er the hill soothing many 
a weary couch of fever. 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


369 


‘ Colonel/’ inquired the Surgeon who had taken his 
seat on a camp-stool at the tent door but near the 
pillow of the couch, “is there not some little thing I 
might do for you? I have written no letters as yet. 
Are there no words you would like sent home? ” 

“Surgeon,” answered the invalid in a husky whis- 
per, “ I have no communications to make.” 

“No communications! But you certainly have 
friends, anxious for your safety? Your condition was 
reported to-day at headquarters, but the record is 
strangely silent concerning your home. The Sanitary 
wish to make their report. Have you any details to 
give? ” 

“None!” answered the invalid, after which the 
short colloquy seemed to have come to a close. 

After a time the soldier broke the silence. “ Sur- 
geon, I was in hopes to die in the ranks ; what are 
my chances for life? ” 

“They are good!” answered the Surgeon, hiding 
the truth. 

The patient attempted to raise himself upon his 
pillow but fell back lifelessly with a smothered 
sigh. After a time he inquired, “Will I be able to fall 
into line within thirty days or less? ” 

“I am thinking there will be no need of you in 
thirty days.” 

“ What! good news from the front? ” exclaimed the 
soldier again attempting to ralley. 

“The Confederacy will fall in less than half that 
time.” 

“ Thank God! But I did hope to die upon the field 


370 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


if die I must. It is horrible to rot in the hospital!” 

“ This is a beautiful night! ” exclaimed the Surgeon 
attempting to turn the mind of his invalid from the 
subject of war and death. “Look through the tent 
door. Are those not magnificent stars? ” 

“Lovely! ” was the exclamation of the low husky 
notes. But in a moment the wounded man turned his 
face slowly away and after a time fell asleep. The 
Surgeon sat quietly waiting the coming of the promised 
assistant. He looked at his watch. The hands stood 
at nine. After a time he walked forth into the soft 
moonlight and slowly paced back and forth near the 
door. He had extinguished the candle and all within 
the tent was now dark. 

After a time the Surgeon observed the approach of 
some one carrying a lantern. He waited. It was the 
expected nurse. 

“You have come! ” remarked the Surgeon. 

‘*Yes, Surgeon. How is your patient resting? ” 

“ He has just fallen asleep.” 

The nurse darkened the lantern with her apron 
and stole calmly into the tent, the Surgeon following. 
“Here are the medicines,” remarked the Surgeon 
softly. “There is water and you will find towels and 
many other necessaries packed within that box in the 
corner. Allow me to say that I am' pleased that 
you have been sent Madam. Report of your kindly 
deeds and your merits as a nurse has reached me. 
Good nurses are rare. One must understand the affec- 
tions, the sentiments! They must have the skill to 
pry into the mind. Half the sufferer’s ills lie there. 
But few have the skill to fathom them.” 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 371 

“Thank you Surgeon, sincerely!” answered the 
nurse in a whisper. “Your friend’s prosperity shall 
be my only care. I shall do all within my power.” 
Then gently leaning over the couch of the sleeping 
soldier, she let fall the dim rays of the lantern upon 
the pillow — but started, and her eyes distended as 
she scrutinized the stubbled face. The Surgeon heard 
her breathing quick and fast. Her face had become 
pale. 

“Do you recognize him?” inquired the Surgeon. 
The nurse arose and looked into the Surgeon’s face. 
There was an expression of painful wonder within her 
eyes. Again she leaned above the couch. The sleeper 
having been disturbed opened his eyes and looked into 
the face of the nurse. She screamed and started 
back as she recognized that face — “ God spare him, it 
is Maurice! It is Maurice!” cried she, falling upcn 
her knees and clasping the pale brow — “Live! Maurice, 
I am Rosetta!” 


372 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


CHAPTER XL. 

A LAST WORD. 

a A ND this is all?” inquired Rose Cimarron whose 
eagerness for every detail was unabated to the 
last. I was now secretly expecting sudden revelations 
from her ; for I had discovered that the history of 
the Cimarron family was in some way blended with 
the Mystery of Louise Pollard. “This is all,” an- 
swered I. “ There is much small detail that might be 
told, which, however, I will delay at present ; for the 
chief dramatic incidents in the narrative have now 
been related. I cannot explain the magic by which 
Rosetta nursed back to life and hope the dying soldier. 
I do not know what consolations were offered to 
Madam Severgn that reconciled her to the union of 
Rosetta and Maurice. But when Severgn had suffi- 
ciently recovered he again appeared at the home of 
Madam Severgn and in the fall of the year Rosetta 
and he were married. Their lives were certainly 
filled with happiness ; for Severgn now picked up the 
thread of life where he had dropped it and again felt 
himself floating gently out into the limitless ocean 
of intellectual exploration ; while Rosetta in that 
sweet oblivion of co-operation which seems the ever 
wifely fate of woman, took up the song of life in har- 
mony with her beloved husband. The very silence that 
now settles about these two people — I must painfully 
admit — renews the anxieties of the mind to know the 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 373 

truth. But I fear that the childhood of Severgn’s 
mother, her origin and lineage shall ever remain a 
sealed hook, sacred to the hearts of Rosetta and 
Maurice.” 

“And this is the end! ” exclaimed Rose Cimarron. 
But in her smile I read the expression of triumph. 
“ Hark,” began she. “ It is now my time to entertain. 
The narrative you have related shall become but a 
prologue to another which is equally wrought in 
romance, dramatic coloring and plot. No audience 
that the Mystery of Louise Pollard may ever gain 
will experience half the interest that I have felt in its 
recital; for although partially incomplete in its revela- 
tion, I now see clearly that it explains the strange 
importations of a document that has long been a 
family possession of the Cimarrons.” 

My mute curiosity was rightly interpreted; and Rose 
continued — “Within this document a mythical charac- 
ter is referred to but the full name is not revealed. 
For some reason only known to the author, the charac- 
ter after brief space is carefully dropped from the 
records. But that she , who is so silently dismissed 
from the genealogy therein recorded, is none other 
than the mother of Maurice Severgn, I am now cer- 
tain. Though the records in this document extend 
back over the generations of several hundreds of years 
the part which is of special interest to us begins 
about the year 1675. The chronicler recites a brief 
account of the Indian wars, that at that period infested 
the people of Old Virginia which occurred during the 
time of the rebellion of Nathanial Bacon against the 


3?4 The Mystery of Louise Poilard. 

tyranny of Berkely, the royalist governor. Many of the 
Indians who were at this time taken captive were 
parceled out in the colony as slaves. Among them 
there was a certain Indian Chieftain who according to 
the chronicler is dignified with the title of an Indian 
Prince. He with his wife and infant daughter became 
captives. It is wisely set down that the yoke of 
slavery never fit well upon the neck of the liberty- 
loving and restless American Indian. Likewise the 
young Chieftain and wife having been transported 
with others as slaves to the Bermudas soon expired 
under the lash of bondage. However, their infant 
daughter survived them ; and although she served 
during her remaining years as a domestic slave in an 
Old Virginia family her life as such was certainly 
made even more happy than it could have been had 
she filled the irksome duties as wife of some savage 
warrior of the Seneca Nation to which tribe she 
belonged.” 

Step by step, Rose Cimarron then traced forth the 
barbaric strain of this enslaved princess, mingling as 
it had in the course of years with Teuton blood, 
finally to culminate in a noble heir, a beautiful and 
talented girl, the mythical character of the genealog- 
ical document. At a very early age this girl it 
would appear had been placed under the care of guar- 
dians who reared her to the age of womanhood in a 
life of luxury and refinement. Unconscious of the 
invisible bonds which manacled her hands to an 
awful fate she had been wooed and won. Jealousy 
and envy had fought a hand to hand battle for the 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 375 

possession of this beautiful and accomplished girl. 
Likewise revenge in the form of a disappointed 
lover, whose life has been traced, stealthily pursued the 
unfortunate pair. The early orphanage of the girl and 
the manner in which she had been reared was enough to 
arouse the suspicions of the jealous and thirsting 
heart in which revenge now sat enthroned. The 
results of his inquiry soon encouraged his malicious 
spirit. Soon the title-deeds to the soul of this 
beautiful but fated creature were secured ! Then 
clutching tightly in his hand these awful papers and 
armed with the authority of a hell-wrought statute, 
like a fiend he arose before the eyes of the apalled 
husband. The results are known. 

Many facts set down in the strange document 
referred to by Rose Cimarron were then quoted in 
corroboration of her theory until the truth became plain 
and unquestioned. Nor should the descendants and 
heirs of this Seneca maiden blush for their ancestral 
blood; since the pages of American History are sanc- 
tified by the lasting deeds of noble men who drew their 
strain from similar fountains. 

As to the fate of each of the others who have 
appeared in the drama of Louise Pollard, it is soon 
related. Black Salley served her remaining years doing 
menial labor in the carnal palace where destiny had 
first lodged her. Father Jerome as we are aware sur- 
vived his prison experience several years and lived to 
see happiness come to the lot of his grand-child. 
Camillo was finally located in Florence. But there 
being much expense and labor in procuring papers of 


376 


The Mystery of Louise Pollard. 


extradition, the old fadrone was allowed to float down 
the river of life unmolested. Cavilazo was traced to 
a coast town in Brazil where he met his death at the 
hands of an enraged Spanish gambler. Bianco became 
a thrifty merchant and a happy father. Severgn’s 
valet, Belshazzar, was killed in the first day’s fight 
at Shiloh. The fate of Vulcan is uncertain. Careful 
investigation by Severgn discovered the brief fact 
that Vulcan upon the very first opportunity broke his 
bonds and joined the Federal Army, becoming the 
leader of a company of colored volunteers,, who after 
the Emancipation had embraced their first opportunity 
to fight for the freedom of their race. There was but 
one legend remaining to guide Severgn to the pos- 
sible destiny of Vulcan. In the assaults at Vicksburg 
he won a title as “The Brave Black Captain.” 
Nothing more is known of him. But had Severgn 
taken part in that terrific but unsuccessful assault 
which on the 19th of May, 1863, Gen. Grant sent against 
Vicksburg, he might have seen the giant form of a 
negro stretched in death with arms outspread across 
the Confederate redoubts. A closer examination of 
the upturned face which now cast its stony eyes upon 
the silent sky would have revealed a seared and par- 
tially disfigure letter “V” which, in years before by 
some barbarous master, had been branded with a hot 
iron in the center of the black forehead. 

As for Doctor North and his wife, we leave them 
in happy companionship with Madam and her children. 

* * sH 

The last word in the narrative of Louise Pollard 


The Mystery oj Louise Pollard. 


377 


had been spoken. Instantly sped across my mind a 
reflection which gave me pain. In less than a fort- 
night I would say farewell. The hour came. 

Fitly equipped with the duties of my commission 
in behalf of Western mining interests, the disturbed 
condition of which was now unsettling the peace of 
the Eastern stockholders, early in the summer having 
now sufficiently recovered from my illness, I repaired 
to the silver-regions of Nevada. But to the trust of 
future pages will it be left to relate the sequel of a 
long and lucrative experience in this land of swift 
fortune. To the trust of future pages will also be left 
that no less than romantic life of mine during one 
long blissful summer among the geysers and canyons 
of Yellowstone Park where the music of Rose Cimar- 
ron’s voice peopled the sleeping shades of that wilder- 
ness of natural wonders. 


the; end. 


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